


Doesn't Have to be Solo

by BorkMork



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Anxiety, Each chapter a state or so, Experimental Style, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, If you see anything weird with formatting tell me, Road Trip Series, Self-Discovery, Sexuality, This boy is going to be happy and I'll make sure of it, Will add more characters as we go on - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 64,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorkMork/pseuds/BorkMork
Summary: Steven Universe wanted a change of scenery, and he got it.A series of certain points in Steven's journey throughout all thirty-nine states.
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe
Comments: 237
Kudos: 446





	1. Keystone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody! Like the summary says, this will be a ficlet series that'll focus on Steven's journey throughout the thirty-nine states. Each of them will be different and vary in length — some will go above 2k words and some will just be under 1k — but each one is to show Steven's progress as the years go by.
> 
> Another thing is that I had altered a few details from the finale and I want to make them clear before we continue. Please note that I will update this and add notes on when I change or add to the list:  
> -Steven decided to leave his home at the age of 18 after a few years of having a therapist.  
> -Connie will start Jayhawk University a few months into the series.
> 
> Other than that, I hope you guys have a fantastic one and let's see where the series will go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art created by [lazybunnyfantasia!](https://lazybunnyfantasia.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!
> 
> Feel free to give her a shizzton of love for creating the beginning.

He remembered Keystone well.

It was the smallest glimpse into the past, but somehow it kept in touch within his memories. Keystone had fit its place even with such a quick trip to it, especially the first time. There was a fight, the wanting for two of his favorite people to make up for what appeared to be indifference or heavy enthusiasm, and in the midst of it, he was the key piece. Well, his anger was. He didn’t know if it was a good example of a nice memory — it was hard to swim through them, pick and prod each one to see if it was a good or bad one — but he liked to believe it wasn’t all that bad. There was the ability to reunite people; he had that. He had a moment to rest in a semi-comfy motel bed too.

Yet there was something nerve-wracking about having a room all to yourself. There wasn’t his dad to tell him to wake up in the morning to take a shower or get ready for the bed and breakfast; there wasn’t anybody to tell him when’s the right time or if anything was going amiss; if the pool was on fire and starting to dissipate into nothing. It felt weird to have all this space for himself. He could set up his own alarms at 6 AM, plug up his laptop to the WiFi, watch documentaries in bed, and decide whether it was worth it to scramble over to the showers before breakfast or if he should just sully himself into the peace and quiet for a few more minutes. Nobody had to say anything. He had all the action and time in the world.

The whole thing was scary. But satisfying.

He thought it would be a trainwreck the first time he saw the change in scenery: the gradual move from rolling hills and the typical sight of woodland to something bursting and teeming with wilderness, the smell hitting his nose even with closed windows — but every part of it was addicting. He never allowed himself to drive so far, only going between a few towns prior, just to blow off some steam with a casual joyride to relax his nerves — but this was different. Even if he had the chance to go back to Delmarva he’d rather keep his things and continue trudging through to the next state and the next. 

Change of scenery was better, a change of mind needed the room to breathe. 

Well, he could go back for trips, of course, yet he had to focus on the plan. 

This was _his_ time.

He was allowed to think for himself.

And Connie made sure to remind him of that whenever he woke up. When the phone alarm would hit and he had gotten tired with staying with the cushions, he would wake up. At the grab of his phone, he would see the message, sent ten minutes ago (6 AM sharp):

> **06:00am** **Berry** ily, steven! don’t be afraid to talk to me if anything’s on your mind.
> 
> _Read_

She saw it as small pieces of appreciation; Steven saw it as a reminder to keep going.

Without delay, he sat upon the edge, the bed creaking under him. Fingers tapped, the screen dazing his eyes.

> **6:00am** **You** I love you too! Give me an hour and I’ll meet you at breakfast! Still groggy from the sleep schedule.
> 
> **6:01am** **Berry** will do
> 
> _Read_

Before he could put the phone down, it buzzed again.

> **6:02am** **Berry** also don't be a stranger when i see you <3
> 
> _Read_

He grinned to himself. Giving her a quick message back he closed off, starting his trek towards the bathroom. That shower wasn't going to start itself.

* * *

The diner was preoccupied. Not only by the waft of pancakes and melted butter but of people too. Attendees, many who looked of weary travelers who stayed too long in their seats on the road, were waiting for their caffeine kick. Children would chatter and sometimes fumble with the jukebox nearby. Young adults like him would just relax and fumble away on the tables or with their phones. Adults kept their heads stuck to laptops or were too antsy with their quick-groomed looks since they didn't have much to dally or waste when it came to their plans. For Steven, he didn't have that same worry, but he could relate to what life felt like when you're running out of control.

Sometimes letting yourself be at the mercy of the unknown could be a curse and a blessing at the same time.

Plopping into an empty row, he got the order that he and Connie planned to get for their little meet-up: one strawberry milkshake for him, one coffee for her, two plates of the same breakfast special — with jam and toast on the sides. Afterward, he settled down. As the waiter took her time drifting in and out of the kitchen doors, he decided to start looking through his phone in the hope of passing time. 

He had downloaded a few apps ever since he started getting more serious about this whole 'grounding' thing. They weren't different in how he would schedule stuff while he was running Little Homeworld, but somehow the prospect of it being related to him and what he wanted felt more relieving — a 180 from the frustration of dragging himself to classes, to leadership meetings, to every chore under the sun. Instead, what he was brought with was just simple goals for the day (nothing big, nothing tedious) and made him feel accomplished at the tick of the boxes, even if the goals were small in the end.

Wait, no, they _weren't_ small. He needed to remember that.

First thing on the day:

▢Have breakfast with Connie.

At the tap on his shoulder he looked up from his phone. The plates were already set, wafting of brew and richness as he met with the smile of his girlfriend. The sight of her made his heart skip.

"Were you waiting long?"

"Nope! You're on the dot, actually." He smiled at her, watching her scoot into the booth opposite him. Even with how long the years have gotten for them, she looked beautiful as ever: hair framed in lively groomed curls, smile a beam in the room, face harboring the kind of youth even the sight of eye bags couldn't take away. 

"Good. Also, Lion’s not here for today, you know him.”

"He does what Lion does."

"Correct, but that should give us enough time to talk. Knowing him, he'll come back after an hour.”

"That's great! I missed you a lot, Berry, you have no idea."

"It's only been a day though." It wasn't malicious, he knew the playfulness from a mile away.

"I know, but I can't help it. It's so nice just to see you again, always!" He couldn't lie. Even though he had video chatted with her hours prior while on the road, he felt utter joy when seeing her in the flesh. It wasn't an anxiety thing — to make sure that she was actually real and not far away — but more so a comfort in knowing that she will keep in touch with him. He didn't like the idea of being full-on alone with a huge plan such as this, particularly if it was going to span _years_ of his life in exploring the states.

"Then I'm glad I came on time. Wouldn't miss this for the world, especially if it's about you."

"You'd never miss stuff like this," he agreed; his voice rose into a teasing tone, "not even when you message me good morning apparently."

She giggled, looking elsewhere. "Shut up. It's a punctual thing."

"Very punctual." He sipped at his milkshake. "But sweet."

The two of them settled into their little outing. The butter packets were lathered onto the stacks, syrup pouring into small swirls from little gravy boats that decorated the edge of their table. They allowed themselves to drink, savor the way their brains were starting to wake up — how the woods outside were now brightening in color, the sunrise beginning to rouse the vibrant blue from its previous slumber. It made the entire thing homely. Heck, if motels were like this all the time he wouldn't mind traveling and removing the idea of settling all together!

"Sooo?"

"Hm?" He looked at her.

"How does it feel to be out in the world?" She relaxed at her lean, giving him soft contentment, sipping her coffee. "Out doing stuff on your own terms?"

"It's," he gave a nervous sip of his milkshake again, "I don't know. Just a lot of feelings at once, I guess?” It’s hard to say it out loud. Something about the whole thing felt jumpy, the kind of thing that would take time to explain in full. “I've never done this before — I mean there were the diplomacy years at Homeworld but I don't think...those count?" His words faltered. He looked back at her, waiting for a response; when he got a nod he kept going, going faster. "It's exciting and terrifying at the same time. It feels like I could throw up at any moment."

She looked at him in worry. "You need a bag?"

"No, I feel like I'm about to throw up in a good way. Like," he looked at his hands, sipping at his milkshake more, "I don't have to worry about anything bad happening in the motel. It's just me. It's just me working on my laptop or watching a penguin documentary on AnimalEarth or flopping on the bed multiple times. I don't know, am I going too fast?"

"You're going fast enough." She smiled at him. He had her attention, she was intent on listening, and somehow his heart rammed more at the sight of it. "I'm so glad you're happy about all this. You really needed a break, you know?"

"I guess so."

"You deserve a break, Steven. You really do. It's okay to say that you deserve it." She plopped a piece of her egg into her mouth, swallowing it after a while. "And I'll keep telling you this until you believe it."

He beamed at her. God, that was what he needed. "I love you, Connie."

"I love you too, you dork." There was a gleam in her eyes: affection, love, the type of intimacy that made his insides warm and fuzzy. “Remember, I’m just a call away. If you need anything, then I’ll be there. You’re not going to be alone on this journey.”

Heat pooled in his eyes. He whined, ”Conniieee.”

She giggled. Reaching out, she wiped a few of his tears. “Really. Even if I’m going to be busy that doesn’t mean I won’t take my time for you. We look out for each other, and I’m not going to run away.”

“Neither will I.”

“I know.”

God, he wanted to kiss her. Oh wait, he definitely could!

Without a moment's notice, he took the plunge. Leaning over the table, giddy at how the other did the same, he captured her lips into a sweet chaste kiss — the taste of strawberry, of breakfast delight, now on his mind. When they pulled away, he couldn't stop staring at her face, how her eyes crinkled with delight and how the two of them started to giggle, like the world wasn't an obstacle anymore, that they could take life head-on without delay. And they definitely could, because they were Jam Buds. Best friends. Lovers to the extreme.

She then snorted. "I thought you said you're gonna throw up?"

He rubbed his neck. "I mean, not throw-uppy enough to _not_ kiss you."

"Gotcha." Steven looked down at his hand, finding hers beginning to intertwine with his. He reciprocated her hold, allowing the warmth of it to settle, to level with him. He was lucky to have someone like her, he had no clue what his future would be like if she was out of the picture. Probably worse for wear. Or tired all the time and still stuck in who knows where. Or still a monster knee-deep in ocean water. The attack of sea salt. Just losing it. Not knowing where to go. Being afraid of not only everything and everyo—

Focus, Universe. Just focus on her warmth. It wasn't hard to just focus on something so darn comforting. There were people arou—!

"Steven." The warmth tightened its hold on him. He gazed at her, watching her eyebrows furrow in focus. “Breathe.”

With some hesitancy he did. It took a few moments, allowing his mind to get into a pace, into a rhythm he could follow. It felt weird to let himself brazen, to focus away on the worries, focusing on what he could control.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

After...a few minutes(?) he could feel his thoughts calm down. The warmth was of a tether as his mind focused again. Everything expanding, releasing, becoming of clarity again. 

Okay. Okay. That was good. He was fine.

“Thank you.” The words were shaky, but the gratitude was there, evident in each word that slipped past his lips. “Holy crud, thank you.”

She brushed his knuckles. Tender. Loving. “I’m proud of you.”

God, he was too lucky. He couldn’t help giggling more, keeping her hand in his. “I think this breakfast was a success.”

Connie gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “If it was, then you know what to do.”

He looked satisfied at that. Loosening his grip on her he quickly turned on his phone. When the task manager app popped up, he knew what to do:

⊠Have breakfast with Connie.

Yeah.

It felt good.


	2. Empire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a later scene, if anyone needs a reference, here's a [link](https://youtu.be/6T-wzCX1RFU) to what I've used.

The memory of Empire was a sweet one.

Lapis was always an amazing friend. Even if there was the fear of previous events, of previous skirmishes — the bubbles from his mouth, the heat in his burning lungs, the crash of the waves — he never allowed it to fully clog the idea that Lapis was loyal, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to be there for him like how he didn’t hesitate to help her back too.

Sure, he still gets shaky. When he thinks of drowning he flashes to those at points, especially when he stays too long in the bathtub, but he knows that they’re in the past. There were some scenes he’d never forget. It all came down to everyone, to be fair. They had some past skirmish. He just needs to remember that it’s okay to feel pain over it. They hurt him in some way or another, he could justify it all he wants, but that fact is still there.

He really needed to remember this idea that things were good even in his amalgam of thoughts. It was hard to discern which ones were beautiful or tragic when his mind pondered over them, and he didn’t want to think that every memory inside of him was tainted with potential anxiety or fear he previously thought.

And that's why Empire was a good place to start.

When he was little, back when his legs were stubby and his voice cracked and squeaked, he could recall when Lapis picked him up onto her back and soared over the lit-up streets without a care in the world. With the wind through his locks and some playful swoops and dives through the current, he found joy in letting the city gleam and blossom with life and sound — each bustle in the dark reminding him of a beating heart full of concrete and hundreds of thousands of people allowing it to thrum in sleepless activity.

It was always what they said: "What happens in Empire City, never sleeps."

Driving through the city was a lot different than flying above it as well.

For one, there was a lot of traffic. The biggest reality crasher — and the most mundane. He was surprised how nervewracking it could be in held-up highways, hearing people honk around him because of the daily grind. Where taking inches forward was a victory rather than a form of torture for them. He found himself getting frustrated too when he would check the time (8:00 AM) and when he thought he suffered enough in the restless fray of bumper-to-bumper activity, he would see the time again (8:10 AM) and realize the type of hell he placed himself into.

However, this allowed him to see the second part of driving: the streets, the local businesses, the glamor of Empire’s awake escapades. Through the holdup he found himself peering at the sight of denizens walking down the streets. People in business attire. Some in jogging gear. Others in plain hoodies and jeans. They would pass by shops (Tony’s Pick-Up, Shoeshine Alley, Boba Fei’s) and each one looked worn but living, people passing in and out or wading by to someplace different altogether. He knew about Broadway, of the number of creative opportunities you could find yourself in a place like this, the colors, the melting pot of different faces in a wave of busy peoples. All of it was of a curiosity to him; he researched so much about the state before he got here and now he wanted to deep-dive into it like it was a pool brimming with reef.

He planned a great deal of his trip and — using travel forums and threads — was able to grab the attention of a man who frequented the apartment hosting business, scoring a great deal in the process. The maximum of his stay was three weeks and he wasn’t going to miss out on the type of stuff he found out about the bustling metropolis itself.

Where he was going to start though, would be to settle down. Sure, his dad always kept him with a lot of credit on his card, but he wanted to try to be smart about this. Cheaper is better, right? People wanted to keep their prices low because they didn’t want to be braggy of the type of stuff they had, right? Or was it also because money could be hard to manage all the time? Well, what ever the logic, he wanted to feel that type of experience. The credits could be used, sure, but only if he needed to, especially if he wanted to give some extra cash to the ones who helped along the way (the forums being a big one since people were kind enough to give him tips, advice, to keep his wallet in his front pocket or with a chain if he had the time to do so).

When his GPS closed in on the street, after hours of lagging about in traffic, he found himself beaming at it. The boxes in the back were clunking about, still held up by ropes and some duct tape, and he wanted to get them out for a while.

He was somewhere in the Brooklyn area. The sun was above him, blotted from the occasional cloud as the Dondai passed through rows of street buildings, of brownstones that curved and held itself behind iron fencing, reminding him of those pictures he would spot in the history books Connie would show him while the two studied about his past back in the Beach City library. It really did remind him of that, of peaceful movies where one would stride through neighborhoods like this; the wind brushing their features, looking of rustic peace. He wondered if he could reenact that somewhere on one of the sidewalks. He really should!

Steven, however, took a small breath. He shouldn’t do that yet, he had to focus on the important stuff (though walking like an actor was important like any other).

When he parked himself into a comfortable wedge he grabbed his phone. Clicking the app, he stared at the task in front of him. Without a step in his beat, he pressed it.

⊠Arrive at the Empire City apartment.

* * *

The days went better than he expected.

He always read and researched about apartment hunting disasters, especially when it came to the hosts themselves, however the man he met was kind. The whole thing was more so a roommate situation from how his host was actually a room above him, but the promise of keeping in touch comforted him more than it should. There were shaken hands, laughs, and the exchange of information, and the boxes became settled onto the floor when his host motioned him towards a room. Barren, stripped down to the essentials. All to himself. A temporary one, but it was still his own place. Steven, with a flop, relaxed into the mattress, letting out a joyous groan. He took a long time just staring at the ceiling of his new place, his host giving him a moment while the muffled noises of the city became a new lullaby to his car-cramped body.

He loved the idea of staying in one place forever, but he had a limit. He could only stay here for under a month and he wanted to give himself a chance to have a great look around rather than a quick dip into the state.

Before the fatigue could settle in, he got up. The apartment tour was a good way to get out of the mud: the particulars of the television, the dangling CDs in decor, the LEDs framing the walls above the brown-cushioned couch, the bathroom’s lavender scent, the kitchen’s tiny but comforting presence, and most importantly, the balcony. The balcony, from what the host told him, was cleaned every time a new visitor came (“People really like to watch the skyline, so I make sure the lounge chair and radio are outside just for them.”) and Steven couldn’t blame them. 

When his first day in the city came to a close, he stuffed his feet into some slippers, putting on a bathrobe as he slipped through the glass doors. He didn’t want to dirty it, but the sight he was given took his breath away. The gleam of metal structure during the day was now outlined in layers of color, of blurry rainbow menagerie — music and cars and clamor now a soft buzz, a quiet backdrop to the beautiful. Even when the breeze left his fingers cold and numb, he gripped onto the cool railing just to be embraced by the dark. The atmosphere tickled his face, lips adorned with a smile. Everything about it told him of a heart-pounding realization; he was going to take the big step.

Leaving Delmarva was the kick-off. Keystone was a warm-up. Here’s where the excitement rockets.

Even if the apartment was temporary, friendship with the host uncertain, he wanted to make it worth it.

While on that balcony, humming a song to himself, he pulled out his phone.

▢Connect and make some friends.

Putting it back, he relaxed. With a deep breath, he spoke to nobody but himself, just a whisper to the city, “I’ll make this worth it.”

* * *

One of the tips he found about scheduling is that one could get a better idea of how much time he had if he didn’t call it weeks but days. It would make him anxious sometimes, but it was better than making him procrastinate — even if the possibility sounded impossible now from how prepared and excited he was for the trip itself, though, might as well be ready for anything.

Three weeks equaled twenty-one days. Twenty-one days.

Twenty-one days to go to the museums. To check out the restaurant recommendations. To see the free events at the bars for poetry night and guitar solos. To see the gardens on the abandoned highway. Or Central Park. Or the Bowery. Or see the small replica of the Eiffel Tower light up with the water show near the big casino halls. So much to do in such little time.

That’s why Connie recommended him to make a small list. In another section of his phone, away from the overall goals, was one he titled ‘Empire’, with subtitles that ranked from ‘Day One’ to ‘Day Two’ to the last day on his list at the very end. Below each subtitle, she told him that as long as he fulfilled a big goal — one that he wants to achieve out of every single thing he wanted to do — then there shouldn’t be any regret when there’s time in the end. It sounded good in theory, yet experience could only show him if it was worth it. And so, he took them in stride.

Day one had a stroll through Central Park, through the stretches of beautiful grassland, of rivers and streams and creeks that flittered his ears with the trickle of nature.

Day two had his host bring him along to the nightclubs, where the neon was home to many when the business was done and the thrill of dancing became the norm.

Days three to five were of restaurants. A slam poetry night here and there, admiring bands that strummed their guitars and sang their hearts out on pedestals, like the people were clapping, like the night was cheering their name.

The days would go on. Meeting with the host’s friends. Credit card on a few niche cafés. Visits to the central areas. China Town. Brighton Beach. Greenwich Village. Nights tired to the bone, crashing onto his bed like a ragdoll. He kept certain things steady; at certain times, before the afternoon, he rested at his bedroom desk, notepad and pen next to him as Dr. Greene kept level with him, her words — with its occasional lilt and squeak in calm — keeping him reminded on the tasks at hand, at his mental health as the nights went by and by. He would wring his hands a few times from almost panic attacks while in certain situations, he knew that, so he had to be careful. Steven had no clue what would happen if he made himself burst into dry hysterics in a huge place, like a hangout or a museum out of all places.

However, from her sweet smile and nod of her head, he believed that things were going right. He was still there, excited and breathing. If he got shaky at some points he was careful to not push his body; he was getting better at spotting it, removing himself before it overwhelmed him to tears. And the daily encouragements from Connie made sure of this. The two never saw their relationship as long-distance; any time he needed hugs or a marathon, she would be careful in teleporting herself and Lion into the apartment, keeping him company when particular memories were bland on his tongue.

So far so good. Loneliness won’t be a companion, and he made sure of it.

When he woke up it was the fifteenth day. He peeked through the blinds, coughing a little at the dust while his eyes took in the fact that the nightlife was still on, the horizon starting to brighten up to light purple.

Oh, wait! Does that mean Connie isn’t awake yet?

He looked at his phone.

4:58 AM.

Perfect!

He waited for two minutes.

At the tick of the new hour, he tapped onto the messaging app.

> **05:00am** **You** Good morning, Honey! Feel free to text me if anything’s going on. I’ll be busy but I could definitely spare some time just for you!
> 
> _Delivered_

He rested himself on his belly, swinging his legs while the phone perched in front of him on the bed.

The message was instant.

> **05:00am** **Berry** darn you beat me to it! lol but i’ll definitely see you later, biscuit, what’s the occasion?
> 
> **05:01am** **You** Museum. Very “high-class” from what the forums told me, you have to be very early for it and I was prepared!
> 
> **05:02am** **Berry** traffic be damned, huh?
> 
> **05:04am** **You** Always horrible. I mean, some parts are tolerable but I’m not going to use the Dondai this time. Subway sounds faster, I want to be reallllyy early for this.
> 
> **05:05am** **Berry** haha alright text me when you’re finished, okay?
> 
> **05:05pm** **You** Always. Love you though! <3 <3 <3
> 
> **05:05am** **Berry** ily2!
> 
> _Read_

He then turned it off.

* * *

Subways had some type of magic.

Not the gem magic he was used to being around, but something different in its own way. Maybe it was the crowded feeling, the luminescence of the underground, and the people who inhabited it. Sure, the trains were cool — they zipped by with the loudest calamity that could infest the tunnels — but no one told him the stations had their own form of culture.

There were many who would wear their best garbs, dresses, while waiting and loitering near some of the shops with bored stares and chewed-up lips, completely ignoring the oddities that made him smile at the sight of it. 

It was a big reason why he missed his rides or fretted over finishing his goals prior. One time, after taking some time eating a veggie burger, one of the subway areas distracted him with a long passageway of paintings. Asking around gave him the answer of a free art tour, that people were allowed to fill the space, to hum and critique and stare at these pictures in silence. So he did, scratching his chin at paintings that melted or looked cubic or had sad faces that reminded him of something Vidalia would do in one of her art classes. After an hour of staring and chuckling at the weirdness of the pieces, he sprinted out when his phone reminded him of the plans he had for today; the rollercoasters weren’t going to ride themselves, you know?

Another would be the random encounters with projects found at the stations. Events like toasts or some form of band would catch his eye, and always it lead for him to stare and move along to the beat while the jazz, rock, or vocals grabbed the attention of passersby the same as him until a crowd became the main interest. There wouldn’t be much audience participation, just the beat, the tap of one’s shoe, the clap of one’s hands. But it was something. It made people smile and that was what mattered.

However, the experience he found himself in today was better than he could possibly imagine.

With the swipe of the MetroCard, the pass of a turnstile, he was relieved to find himself on the subway train before it slid its doors shut. In the safety of it, he kept shifting through the cars for a seat — passing by a couple with their crying infant, a man grunting to himself on the phone, and a few bags that were unceremoniously parked in the middle of the walkway. When he plopped down onto a seat the tension in his shoulders loosened, settling his stuff onto his lap as the train started off quickly into the tunnels.

There wasn't much for him to do except fumble with his phone. Texts between him and Connie kept him occupied — exchanges of stuff for today and yelling over what appeared to be a new show on Connie's radar (a Japanese show based on a movie too!) — but not enough to get him out of his discomfort, this tired atmosphere that didn't seem to go away. Maybe sleep was something he needed. Heck, it sounded like it from how he'd been yawning up a storm for a good few minutes he'd been here. 

Steven felt restless too. There was an urge to get up. Maybe it was the lack of exercise. Or the caffeine in his system. Whatever it was, it wanted him to do something and it won't leave him until he was breathless, aching for something to move and get the jitters out.

And that came in the form of two women. They were blonde (one with the mane of a lion and another bunched into a ponytail( and it didn't take much for them to start moving from their seats. He didn’t notice them fully at first; they reminded him of passengers who were antsy to move to another place. But the stuff they had with them made him straighten up: a Cajon box and a guitar case. They looked restless just like him, one of them tapping their fingers against their thigh as the two made room in a clearing. Ponytail pulled out her guitar. The other placed the box down. And that was where the beat hit him.

It was solid. A ratatat that pounded at his chest, the maned-girl’s hands slapping the front like her life depended on it. The fatigued looks on them were gone; all he could see were smiles and nodding heads as the hollers, the shouts of "New York, get down!" became the mantra they shared with the car. Because of it, many were starting to look up from their own business.

The beat. The beat of that box. With a ratatata and a boom ba boom bop, the environment roused from slumber, and the yells turned into vocals as the ponytailed-girl started up a rhythm on the strings. Guitar key tuning him in, the beat of his heart assisting the pace.

Boom ba boom bop. Dee da dee dum.

He couldn’t help himself. His fingers smacked against his knee at every beat, at every solitary thump in their song. A few passengers joined in: snapping fingers, humming, the sway of their heads. Whatever these girls were doing, it was working. Even the baby in the frazzled mother’s lap was listening in, the father moving his head to the melody. As the girls kept singing, the lyrics became realized to him.

They were freestyling.

And with that, he waited. Clicking his heels, banging his fist on his thigh.

“ _Everybody I’m hearing my name!_ ” Ponytail belted.

Her companion shouted out. “ _The journey ain’t a single wheel in this damn train!_ ”

At the rise of their voices, with the jut of his shoulders, he added on, “ _Everybody’s going on and on!_ ” They looked at him, laughter filling the air. “ _Spin and spin and spin the wheel when you’ve got the chance._ ” A whistle to his right. Keep going keep going. “ _We’re no wolves in sheep's’ clothing!_ ”

Ponytail answered him back, the other increasing the tempo. “ _So why lie when you’ve got the soul?_ ”

He laughed along. “ _Work your body like no one’s goddamn home!_ ”

Much to their delight, a few others began to join in. A man started to beatbox, another singing alto notes while a few others pulled up their phones for the event. The time was nothing, for all they could hear was the slap of hands, the random lyrics and scat singing that made his mind soar and race. It was of solidarity. Of a single group.

People were having fun together. The clock, the passing of blurry nothings in the windows, wasn’t going to weigh them down. And the lyrics from person to person showed it.

It was nonsense. Nothing but words and sounds and hollers and beatboxing. But it was the best kind of nonsense.

* * *

People bustled their way out of the doors. The train had spent its time and now his destination was just somewhere outside of the walls. But he didn’t want to go, especially with the laughter exchanged between him and the two women who started their jam session in the back of the subway.

Ponytail (her name being Hailey) was congratulating him for starting a wave, one she quote “she hasn’t seen in a long time”.

“Aw shucks, it’s nothing.” Heat festered his cheeks, but her friend (Bree) had none of it, patting his back with a jolly giggle.

“You’re really good, man! Didn’t know we’d find another musical soul on that train but hey you proved us wrong. You had the whole car going, it was insane!”

The heat crept up more, leaving him to stutter until Hailey saved him a moment of embarrassment.

“We’re curious. Since we’re going the same way do you want to get a coffee later? Bree knows a sweet coffeehouse somewhere. It would be awesome to get to know ya’ better if you’re up for it.”

A grin grew on him. “Yeah.” His voice rose. “That’d be great!”

When they exchanged numbers with him, leaving him to go his own way at the crossroads after their goodbyes, he couldn’t stop smiling to himself.

⊠Connect and make some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now art for this scene!
> 
> Feel free to check out [letshaveacuppa's](https://letshaveacuppa.tumblr.com/post/614084464557129728/doesnt-have-to-be-solo-chapter-1-theblepking) art on Tumblr.


	3. Jersey

Jersey was an interesting place to ponder about changes

Empire City was full of changes, of course. New friends, new experiences, the thrill of actually being in a settled place even if it’s temporary. He had seen a lot in just twenty-one days and it was hard to choose what his favorite memory was, yet Jersey found himself in this new transition, a new addition to his lifestyle. He wanted to start thinking in retrospect, to ponder over what to do.

It was why he was settled down in a coffeehouse. There he listened to old indie albums from the speakers; some King; some Stella; the great blues from the 60s. He spent a great deal of time just chatting it up with the locals, hearing them rave about their favorite shop or moment at the parks or out of state. The baristas would allow him to sit by them as they poured cream into pools of coffee, sprinkling sugar into the depths of delicious mocha until the whiff of cocoa beans and cinnamon flooded his senses. There was the ting of the bell at every order. Ornaments — bulbs, orbs, stars — dangling down from the wooden ceiling supports. The joyous soft couple near the windows, the decals of flowers and farmlands decorating the glass, bounding in detail. It kept him grounded, relaxed in the hush. At this rate, coffeeshops were going to be his favorite hangout spot if they kept up their beautiful environments.

His fingers were now tapping at the keys, eyes stuck to the laptop screen that rested on his lap, the words spilling out onto the page in front of him.

_**When I started this journey, I knew that I’d be faced with new stuff day by day. I have no clue how long this will take. I planned for two years but with how things are going I might be able to extend it? Is it enough to do three years or four?** _

The coffeeshop had some bustle behind the counter. The soft thumps of joe and mugs and coffee pots. Of jazz that could cradle him to sleep as he focused on his thoughts, on each sentence that fumbled out of him. No backtrack. Light edits. A rub to his nose. A grimace here or there. A slam of the comma key. He wrote without thinking, a trail blazing in his wake.

_**Because the world is insane! There’s so much to do that I’ve never thought I would’ve been able to do! Nightclubs, parties, quiet cafés. Stuff like that was always there but I never thought I deserved to see them but...here we are!** _

He started to hum to a new song on the speaker. He actually knew it. Some type of underground pop named The Psychos.

_**Empire City was cool from above, but going through it was a lot better than expected. Although, I wish the traffic could stop being boring, but I think that’s part of the experience? To be frustrated that things aren’t going the way you want it to be? I don’t like it still but I think that’s what it’s all about: to feel all those really human emotions even if it hurts.** _

To his surprise, writing all this down didn’t come from Connie or his therapist. It started off slow. It was before midnight, the seventeenth day, where he acknowledged the restlessness, the fickle drowse. The clock would tick above the door and all he could do was just close his eyes; to flex and shift and move while his mind zipped by for hours. He’d find himself huffing, buzzing with an energy he couldn’t contain. Everything was moving, going, time short and breathless, and in those moments he started getting scared about the remainder of his stay as the past started to blend together. That was what terrified him. He spent so much time, browsing through shops, through random events, and all of it could just up and disappear because of stupid memory logic. It made him feel tiny, insignificant. He could recall the laughter, the hugs, the music, but what about years afterward, when he’s settled down and content? Would he remember? Would he look back and remember it all? Anxiety even crept up at points, leaving him shaky and numb, afraid that his memories would slip out of his fingers, just because it could. It was unfair to him, to his progress, to everything he did until now.

So the question came up:

Why couldn't he write what he’s done down?

He had the tools. He had the papers. The only thing left to do was finding a quiet place.

And so the notepad became his staple. He had used it for therapy sessions before; now it had a new purpose to him. When he had a few hours left before his self-assigned curfew, he would shuffle over to his desk, grab the pen, and let his mind go. Sure, it was messy. There were points where he would scribble out parts that felt wrong when saying it out loud — pulling his hair when certain words didn’t come to him, when his clean handwriting became more of chicken scratch — but he had to do it or it would all go away.

And when the days blurred and muddied, he found himself filling the pages with ferocious speed. Stacking the memories onto his little study, onto his bedside table, onto the coffee table — he kept note of what he could remember while he wrote them down, his thoughts, his comments, everything that he could recall.

The days at the new Empire bar down the street. No alcohol. Nothing racy. Just some talk with his host’s friends, laughing at the cuddly inebriation that surrounded him.

His awe towards the Keystone museums and the huge statues, squinting at them, pondering if the gems inspired the murals or the weird shapes that took hold on the museum walls.

These were from two states alone; everything he could remember during his days could just be swept into the current without batting an eye. All the smiles. The visits to the subterranean. He didn’t want them to disappear so soon, he didn’t want them to go away.

So when the notepad became full, it was 11 PM — when the general stores were ready to pack up and pull the iron bars down — when Steven made a decision. A laptop should be enough to store his ideas, right?

At the creation of private logs, his own blog to keep himself occupied, the words started coming. Each thought leapt out and jotted themselves into existence, into recorded memory, and the anxiety of losing what he thought was important became controlled. Not even time could remove it, and he found himself satisfied when he started to jot down more and more. He grew to be messy. Each grammar error a reminder that it doesn’t have to be perfect. The big thing was that it had to be written down. 

Editing came later. He needed to write or it wouldn’t work.

And that was what he was doing, head and ears covered by his new black beanie, leaning in a lounge chair while he kept going, his mug of hot cocoa perched on a table coaster — a slip of steam now and then.

_**Jersey is similar to Empire, kinda. Everything about it still has that smoggy quality that Lapis and I saw when we traveled over it. I thought it would get better after years but I guess the people here still hate Earth? Well, they don’t hate Earth a lot if I could remember from researching this state more. They still have sushi at the rest stops (which I ate and were 100% delicious and I highly recommend the veggie special) and there’s new stuff about lowering all that smog in the air so it must be good? Another thing is that they even have more friendly people on the streets.** _

_**Some guy even said “Hi!” to me and asked if I was from Delmarva because apparently he recognized me! Was once a tourist I think, tried to see a rock show for Sadie Killer and the Suspects when the whole fusion and Spinel thing happened and he loved the whole thing. Only criticism he had was that we flew too high and got out of hearing range for him, but that’s okay! I’m just glad someone had a fun time even if the whole thing was stressful.** _

_**Other than that, Jersey is fine? Leaving Empire was a huge bummer but I made sure to keep in touch; I still have the numbers of a few friends I met in Empire City and all of that is settled, I think? I just feel sad that I didn’t have enough time to see the upper areas of Empire, especially the rural areas. From what I’m seeing with the map, we could fix that! If I could climb up the coast through Jersey then to Quinetucket and go up to Maineland I should be able to turn around and go through the northern areas of Empire and even hit regions of Keystone I wasn’t able to reach. I could get to West Keystone in no time.** _

He smiled to himself. It was nice to see how his thought process worked, even if it was to himself in text. It made him feel like he knew what he was doing, and that everything was going to be okay. That if he forgot just a sliver of a memory, what he thought when a certain day occurred, he could keep it close without the threat of it seeping through his fingers. He could keep a handle on it without it 

_**But for now, I want to focus on Jersey. Each state has its own unique way of showing me their culture, and with Jersey, my schedule is going to be packed! Jazz was a recommendation and a lot of Americana shops. Funny too, since the shop I’m in is called The Americana, and it’s, I don’t even know what the word ‘Americana’ even is, but it feels so nice and relaxing.** _

Coffee brew. The strong and the sweet and the creamy. It brought him to another place, the chimes above the door loosening the burden on his shoulders every time a new person entered and exited. 

_**This journal stuff is relaxing too. I don’t know why I’ve never done this before but it’s helping me out. Before it, I had worries that I wouldn’t be able to compact everything I’ve done into something nice. I don’t know how to say it, it’s just that I’m afraid of losing progress? Losing these memories of all these places I’ve been to is just a discomfort. Maybe a fear? So typing all of this down is a good start; maybe even a great start if I keep at it. We’ll see.** _

_**I’ll make sure to write everything at the end of the days. No promises but it should help me.** _

“Number Sixteen!” 

Steven piped up at the voice. He had been zoned out for a while, he didn’t even know how long it’s been since he started. He looked down at his phone, clicking the power button. 1:27 PM. Only ten minutes had passed. With that, he peered over at the counter; the scruffy barista (Jace) was waving him over for what appeared to be another round of chit chat, the order in his hands, bagged up for the day. He put the laptop down.

⊠Start writing travel logs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @BellsnWhistles on Discord has created art for Steven, which you can see [here!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/715278935717576724/image0.png)


	4. Quinetucket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quinetucket is Connecticut.
> 
> We're now into my interpretation of the states so I'll make sure to note which ones are which.
> 
> CW: Description of an anxiety/panic event.

Every place Steven had on the map had some type of history. When it came to looking at old picture books of the grey-scale crowd, of little carved horses with pristine shaved heads, maps and old documents from the prior times wrapped and bound with careful twine, each one harbored something different. There was always a story to the way stuff was preserved or held and Pearl made sure to give him that sense of wonder even if he didn’t listen to her rants of gem culture.

He and Connie found themselves in the library once to look for stuff such as that, pointing at puffed wigs and sailor dreams, laughing when weird facts caught their eye. For his journey, the museums quenched the same drive of curiosity. The Keystone museums he saw on his way talked of old buildings and farm life. For Empire, the number of historical tidbits he found of music and how it developed warmed his heart a little bit more from just thinking of it; community always made the best type of music.

For Quinetucket, there was a lot of pride in its history. Maybe it was just Steven’s luck he got hit with it early on when he drove in and settled down. The host he settled with — a woman in her mid-sixties with a single pearl earring and a sweet croon — had his whole apartment space decked in antiques. Old china, drawers that swirled into scroll arms or ears, and even though he saw the good in people he wondered how long she had this same set-up without people getting grabby over them. 

When asked about it all she did was wink at him, saying, “I know a genuine customer when I see one”.

And the town, Norsted, did a great job of transporting him back to a time that he never lived in. Using the Dondai felt ingenuine when he passed by these buildings. There were cavalcades of brick and tile, passageways that had thrush and brambles lining themselves up against walls, arching over him with connecting metal flower pots like webbed thread, everything breathing of history, of painful dedication. He decided to keep the car parked in the garage and used his feet instead.

It was a small place even with its grand pathways and structures. It wouldn’t take much for him to find a new location that interested him. A car buggie museum. Restaurants that still harbored the same traditions since they were created. The post offices with their white-fading paint jobs. Old lampposts. The smell of pine and sea from the ports. Each step he took transported him somewhere far away, where carriages were the norm and the taste of alcohol was needed to breathe, the seagulls squeaking at his feet when he sat on a bench with a few fries, thinking of how these birds probably had ancestors before them that did the exact same thing. It was a miracle to see all of it flash before him, to see people joyously conking steins together and talking about their ancestors and history like they were a badge, a sign of passage. 

There were fun stories of people at dining tables, a typical sight when he returned to the town after visiting the others nearby. A man from the inn would tell of journies that his great grandfather used to go through — fishing up the coast of the Great North, helping a man who’d gotten his leg bitten up by a bear — while another would join out of pride, speaking of how her mother migrated here at a young age and met the love of her life while delivering through the states, and many others jumped on without hesitation. Yet, when people tried to pull Steven in, asking about his own history, he politely declined and allowed the others to go back to another switch and talk of ancestors, retellings of their greatness, as he drank a soda.

Hesitation was an inevitable thing. He knew history was something to ponder over. It was cool, very. To see people puff out their chests and laugh over their own portraits, families, of the artifacts they garnered in their lifetime, was amazing to see, but there was an emptiness while listening, a certain envy.

He didn’t want to think about it, but Dr. Greene’s words kept repeating in his mind.

_“It’s okay to feel like this about the past. It takes time to unpack everything.”_

He had to keep reminding himself that thinking about Rose was a part of the healing process. There would be sessions where he’d just think about her, bumbling about her flaws, her motivations; he couldn’t even start to tackle the numerous times where he found a problem — an old memory that made his heart spike and sink — only for it to be circled around to his mother one way or another. Pearl. Garnet. Amethyst. Dad. Jasper. The Diamonds. The corrupted gems. He would understand, he would listen, he would make their pain his pain, and at the end of the twisting trails, there was his mother. Through cassette tapes full of “I love you”s, of a room that couldn’t grant the deepest of wishes. ‘You're going to be a human being.’ She was a part of his life. He couldn’t remove the notion of her _not_ being part of the picture. She found a way to either lurk in the sidelines or be the main face when he fumbled over the details. It was a bitter thought, yet what could he do? She was a part of his life, a part of why he felt churned and messy. He had gotten an answer for who he was — which was Steven Universe — but where were the answers to why he felt stuff a certain way? To why certain things had to align and make a weird jumble of a future he was in? It left him as a ghost sometimes, occupying him until he snapped out of it, realizing that he was now in a random section of the town he didn’t mean to be in; the signs were foreign and the streets were of a new footprint.

The buildings had their own faces to him now. Colored wood. Grand porches. The howl the wind made as it climbed up the mountains that faced the northwest. Faces of the young and old, many waving him over for a talk or two. A slam of soda with the steins. Pipes and trumpets to signal the early morning. It was only a week in and he felt at home with this town and its quirky honor. He could recall where his apartment was without checking the GPS. Each street had its own character, its own way of standing out: the town hall avenue would wrap around a bronze statue, this one had the newest set of asphalt, the sidewalks to the library were decorated with mural tiles of flowers, sigils with chalk drawings added to each slab of concrete. He knew the trails from the border of Norsted Forest to the docks where the fishermen sailed out for new pickings. It was a surprise to him when he found himself in a new portion of the town he wasn’t used to, with a dead phone, and a shopping tote.

He stood there. The streets were long stretches, decorated with houses with the wrong numbers and picket fences. He fumbled with his bags, fingers parting through the contents. There were the vegetables, new cassette tapes from a junkie store. Fumbling around he sighed with relief when, under all of it, the moleskins were tucked, safe and sound. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he lost them; all he needed now was to find wrapping paper. And a way home. Steven looked up. There was a street sign that spelled out Elm and Oakley; it didn’t help much, and his phone being dead in his pocket didn’t help either.

Buying necessities and gifts was a great way to pass the time after driving around the state for hiking trails and festivities, but now where was he supposed to go? His charger was back in the apartment and even if he found a way to charge it without the poor thing sparking and dying out he had to make sure to finish a goal on his app and if he doesn’t get to it then it would be left unfinished. He’d lose his streak. He couldn’t lose it.

_Okay, just...let’s just find some help. I only have a few hours left. There’s nothing to worry about._

The magenta of the sky and the wave of birds taking flight were what kept him from feeling the tingle in his brain, the pressure in his chest. There must’ve been an inn or tavern or postal office that looked familiar. Heck, maybe a few residents could spark off some memory. Did Old Man Peter live up this street? He and his husband said they did, that they welcomed the company and some laughs. He could recall that a mother from the laundromat usually took visitors with a side of tea and boysenberry extract. Maybe she could give him the time in exchange for some help with the groceries? There had to be someone recognizable. Someone there to help him out.

He did get a few directions from the residents. They pointed him to curves of the road, to certain streets with detailed instructions that should’ve made sense to him, but Steven could only find himself going deeper into the unknown, kicking pebbles as he watched the sunset turn to deep purple, the outlines of trees becoming murky in the tenebrous. The wind was picking up. It bit at his skin, made him tuck his neck more into his jacket, the woodlands haunting his sights from afar. He had a curfew. He didn’t want to be lost out in the middle of the night.

Yet he kept going further into the unknown streets until all he could do was stumble into what appeared to be a market district. The front porches had women cleaning up their embroidery, beads, clockwork that settled on makeshift shelves with sticker price tags. Lights were on so the shadows contoured their faces, making their figures grim amidst their beaming smiles. They waved and gave him good evenings and he gave them good evenings back; more questions were exchanged with them and, in his despair, found that the instructions were getting more and more confusing as he listened to them.

And he was getting deeper into the unknown. The market buildings were closing up, clicking their lights off, and he was still here.

Nowhere to go.

This was ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

He gritted his teeth while he trudged through the cobbled streets.He rubbed his nose, pinching the bridge, heat gathering at the touch. 

_Breathe Steven, breathe. You don’t want to get too caught up in all of this, you don’t want to have a break down in front of all these buildings, these people. It’s not the end of the world. You’ll be fine._

He breathed more. There were trees, branches, verdant foilage around him. It should be enough, it should be enough. Focus, focus.

“Hey, kiddo!” 

He looked up. A man from one of the stores was walking towards him. He must be angry. _Shit, Universe, pull yourself together._

Before he could apologize, all he could recall was the man looking at him with an unknown face, then the ushering through a door, and then the warmth of blankets and a mug in his hand. He was shaking, mind flashing and flashing with nothing to give him. But the warmth was okay. It was okay, right? Warmth meant he was safe. Just breathe. Just breathe.

“Son, you got this.” 

He had no clue where the voice was coming from — all he could focus on was the warmth and his breathing — but the encouragement was there, it was definitely there as the heat trickled down his cheeks. He heard it again, fainter this time. “Focus on your breathing. I’m not going to leave you.”

When the warmth became his center, his breath came back — more thorough, more present, more touchable and keen. He held onto the mug, fingers clammy from the pressure. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just focus on not breaking it. _It’s fragile, it’s cozy between his hands, it should be held and snug while in his care._

And the weariness began to settle, the feeling now a beat, a form of repetition. He felt okay. Tired, but okay.

"Jeez, kiddo." He looked up, finding the dazed look of an old man next to him, frown noticeable on his lips. There was a whiff of something: ancient, dusty, a tinge of wood. "You were about to let loose out there. Glowed a tad pink and everything."

Oh. 

He kept his hold on the cup. There it was, a concentrated warmth, something present and there. Breathe in. Breathe out. _Just think of Connie. Just think of hugs and touch and comfort. No one was going to hurt him. It was just the nerves, the lack of control._ He inhaled again, controlled and steady. Stable. 

"Thank you." The words sounded ragged, tired. He flinched at how broken it sounded. "For helping me, I mean."

"No problem, son." The man’s expression didn't leave him though. It framed the loose tips of his whisp-white hair, eyebrows furrowed deeply at him. He could notice the sounds now: the ticking of clocks, of little chimes and tunes and music box rinks. Peering behind him he saw the soft symphonies from tables with stiff dancing ballerinas, wooden contraptions poking out frogs with wooden hats as they croaked and clicked. It was better than looking at the elder, whose expression remained illegible to him. 

"Drink up. You're sweating bullets, don't want you to dehydrate."

"Oh." 

He glanced down. The mildew liquid stuck him with the aroma, the earthy scent. His teacup was adorned in little designs, his fingertips roaming around them, feeling the niches between the surface and the paint.

He looked up again. The man was now sitting opposite of him upon a stool. Behind him and his posture, Steven focused on the array of shelves, knick-knacks, and treasures he'd never seen before — piling books on ledges, metal and lamps and rocks and picture frames with coffee-stained gradient. There were train models above table surfaces, tracks linking to each area without a care in the world, the small contraptions chugging silently through their routes.

"Go on." The man's soft voice brought him back. There was a crack of a smile too. "You need strength. Young men need it, especially these days more than ever.”

Steven loosened his grip on the drink. He brought it up. A timid tilt to his mouth, the parting of lips. The relief of finding something to soothe the thirst. The taste of it was just what he thought. It was the crackle of a fire on a numb day, a soothing balm to the wound. The whole thing felt out-of-body, disjointed; nevertheless, he allowed himself to take more of the drink. It reminded him of a safe place, a fingertip tapping onto the ceramics. There was the clink of the surface, and somehow it calmed him even more.

Minutes went by. The old man allowed him to sip his tea, having what appeared to be his own cup on a saucer, pulling it to his lips when Steven took his turns. A hesitant sip from him, a strange sip from the elder as a response. It was a back-and-forth, a shift of eyes and expressions; he wondered if the man was just keeping an eye on him, trying to tell him in the silence that he won’t drink until he himself drinks, but all he could find was passive mood, a sip from the vessel.

“Still shaky, are you?” 

He nodded. 

The man rubbed the back of his neck, mumbling to himself. His attire made him look of a spiffy tax collector, the buttons and brown coat tight to the collar. “Do you feel hungry? Do you have any medication in your pockets?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Ah.” He grimaced for a second. “Are you tired?”

His limbs were heavy, eyelids fluttering and head starting to ache. If he didn’t move now he’d possibly flop onto the floor and daze off to who-knows-where. “Yes, I am.”

“Alright then.” He stood up, leaving Steven to focus. The covers around him were keeping him steady, relaxed under the stuffy lighting. There was a tap on wood. Steven saw him look back, head nodding towards the frame in the back of the room where stairs awaited him. The man tapped his finger on the frame again. “It gets cold at times like these, wouldn’t want you to get sick. I’ll give you a guest room for tonight.”

“Wait.” He shot up from his chair. His body was fine, his mind wasn’t racing anymore, but… “I can’t do that.”

The man frowned, the white bristles of a mustache twitching like so. “It’s fine, really. If one doesn’t have rest then they won’t have the strength to go home, I presume from your hotel.”

“Apartment.” He shook his head. “But I can’t just sleep in someone’s house. At least let me help you or give you something in return.”

“Then what you could do for me is rest.” Steven blinked at the elder’s response. “You’re allowed to leave in the morning, but I’m not letting a youngin’ going neck-deep into weather like this.”

He saw the resolve, the stern tone. The man was going to be stubborn, whether he wanted it or not.

“Okay,” Steven sighed, clutching the ends of his covering. “Fine, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” A chipper tune. Another tap. “Second door to the left; the one with the bird sign. If you need any help with anything, I’ll be down here.”

He nodded, starting his way towards the stairs. Before he could though — the man beginning his trek to the front of the store — he stopped under the frame. “Actually, I’ve got a question.”

“Hm?”

He looked around for a second, at the porcelain animals, at the fake fish trophies above the mantelpiece which crackled with joy. A sheepish smile. 

“Do you have a phone charger?”

⊠Do some shopping.

* * *

  
The man went by the name of Mr. Polsky.

To the casual person on the street, he looked like the picture-perfect image of a man who had a good life. White cuffs, silver-looking cufflinks, noticeable bald spots that reflected from the light; he would huff and stroll through the rooms with a sense of purpose, of duty; even when one’s hit with his timid nature, his soft octaves and weak joints, there was this first impression that one wouldn’t mess with him unless you wanted to be blamed for ruining elder piety. Kids throughout the market district would comment on it: how the man kept everything pristine, was tight-knit if they touched specific items, and wouldn’t hesitate to talk to their mothers since, apparently, every settled folk in this town knew each other. However, he seemed more of a kid than anything no matter the gossip. A curious kid with the maturity of a man.

When Steven walked downstairs the day after the incident, stinking of perspiration and sour musk, Mr. Polsky gave him a look-over from the counter, a stretch of a brow, and told him to go shower. Later, in his haste to say goodbye to him, he found the man in the back of the store, almost jumping in glee at a new antique that was being handed to him from a truck, babbling incessantly on the repairs and the varnish and everything about it that Steven didn’t get. When Mr. Polsky spotted him, he ushered him over for a quick peek. Steven knew, with absolute certainty, that if the man never pulled him over to show the piece (which, in closer inspection, was of 60s Ranger Guy) he would’ve exited the store and never gave a second thought to coming back. 

Of course, he had to reassure Connie and his host that he was fine. Since he hadn’t been back to the house since last night, his phone was bombarded with messages from both, one asking if he needed her to teleport over to his place and the other politely asking him to come back before she had to write up a missing person report. But when he was allowed the moment to relax from the grind of looking through Norsted he gave himself a moment to just inhale the must, the wrinkled papers, preserved pieces of vinyl, and cassette tapes from the 90s.

Whatever this shop had, it kept him coming back.

Books about vegetables and how to tend to them in old English. Dolls of fine embroidery stacked and dangling their legs from the tops of bookshelves. Train models circling and crossing surfaces, even through modified holes that, according to Mr. Polsky, climbed between the walls and popped out again on a high surface like a surprise coo-coo bird. Records from the counter phonograph carried classical through the quiet cacophony of ticks, chirps, and cogs, leaving him content with going through the old comic books near the door, pulling them carefully from their plastic packagings to read about Merman and the limited edition comic versions of _Little Butler_. For Steven, there were promises of stories and tales that the old man would spin about when he wasn’t busying himself with dusty furniture or old Polish records. There was nothing the owner wouldn’t tell for he saw value in the lot of it.

“This isn’t a genuine antique shop if there’s no story to tell,” he said when Steven asked him a question, something to the likes of “could a videogame be an antique?” as Mr. Polsky checked and brushed the cabinets. “People say that the main limitations of an antique is a hundred years or more, which is fine. I get it — I know the trade and why such things are there — but if there’s no genuine story then it’s no antique to me, but an antique in the making.”

As the time slipped by, he found himself talking to Mr. Polsky about the antiques that layered the building like a museum; each one had their own history, a piece to solve, and to Steven, the commentary he found with his ramblings were becoming more of anecdotes. Each one harbored something of worth, of personal view, and it made his visit become more prolonged and meaningful even with its short interval.

“You see, this one was actually bartered for with one of the biggest bastards in the market.” When he saw Steven cringe, he added on: “He was though! The man was rude to the ladies at the stalls, tried to swindle them for every cent. He thought they wouldn’t know, that they were too fickle to see it. One of the girls, a beautiful woman by the name of Florence, showed him who's boss and gave him jack.” He hummed contently. “Fought to the tooth and nail for his telescope, I helped back her up when he made a huge fuss. Kept it like a treasure, wrote a little title card for it: ‘Got it from a sore loser’. Petty I say, but worth it.” He winked. “Florence and I were a crack-a-jack team after that. Even more so when she proposed to me.”

The man, in his talks, did admit more about his late respected wife. One of the details that brought him to full attention was of how she suffered attacks the same as him, and that, he quote, were of a beast all on its own. They were intense, not to the point that she’d break down and feel the weight of the world press with the undeniable belief that everything could snap and die in an instant, but enough to make her feel like the days were slogs. Moments were content and tranquil, full of knitting and teaching of the young boys near the elementary, then the next day she’ll feel the breathlessness, the drowning, the fear that a ball chain was on her leg and was slowly dragging her down to the deepest waters.

“It wasn’t fun,” he said, preparing chai tea for the both of them under the watchful eye of the grand owl clock. The sign on the front door was still turned to ‘Closed’, leaving a bit of guilt in Steven’s gut while the man went on his story. “Tried to ruin some moments for her when she tried to do the things she’d loved. She was a passionate woman, always loved to explore and create — if you tried to hold her back she could only come kicking through the door to try it all again.” There was joy in his words. There wasn’t a tragedy to them, more so an overflowing pride. “She would push and wouldn’t take no for an answer; not even to nature itself, bugger all.”

Steven smiled to himself. “Sounds like a certain someone I have in my life too.”

“Oh really now?”

“Mhm.” He rubbed the side of the teacup. “My best friend, well...girlfriend, but best friend front and center.”

Mr. Polsky nodded.

There was something to point about every time. Each one made the old man happy, hobbling to the place Steven would point towards and telling him what he wanted to hear: history, absolute history. The whole thing was a museum of the past, and whether he accepted the weird gut feeling he had he accepted the fact that the antiques were never stripped of it. Mr. Polsky made sure to keep them all safe in the conditions of his home, his ancient shoppie, no matter the weather. When he'd press his moon spectacles and get to work at the counter, there was a coolness to his eyes, a professionalism Steven was never able to see before outside of the career; there was formality, a man with years on his back who knew what was best. It made Steven wonder how long he'd been doing this. Centuries? Decades? Must be decades.

"Had this for decades, yes." Mr. Polsky nodded when Steven asked him. He was in the workshop, hunkered down on a stool. His friend from another street — a tinkerer, a crafter, a restorer at heart — gave him a piece of Queen Anne furniture a few hours ago and he'd been attempting to look through its crevices with a strong point light. Steven couldn't see where the man would point out restored lacquer or layers of wood — and even if he did it was the smallest of details, tedious to note with how masterfully done they were. "Wifey got the permits back in...nineteen eighty-three?" 

With careful hands he and Steven tilted the piece of furniture, the underbelly looking clear as ever. 

"Made me a happy man. Hard to get permits for antique stores back then but she got it. She won it."

"That's so cool,” Steven said, starry-eyed.

Mr. Polsky chuckled. "Mhm. History is interesting." 

He looked through the wood, mumbling to himself. "It's so visceral and unique, humans interacting and doing things they either regret or not. You can't get rid of what it's done when it's done — someone will get affected by it one way or another. For Flor, she made our dreams of bartering antiques a reality." 

He stopped for a second. 

“Then with this, it could’ve had its designs affected by previous descendants, of curiosities.” 

Steven, with an awkward rub of his arm, found himself being motioned to another spot on the furniture — this time, a diamond, faded into the texture. He hitched his breath. "It’s confusing to think about it all. How actions could change you even when you weren’t there to witness it. Where thoughts, ideas, mindsets could be warped by just one single person.” 

He coughed. 

“Apologies. That must be confusing for you to hear.”

"I think I know what you mean.” He did. It was hard to follow sometimes, but he did. History always followed him. He tried to walk but it always circled around to something from the prior, the things out of his control.

"You do?" 

“I’m always wondering how my own history works.” A laugh, sour on his tongue. “I have all of these family members in my life telling me that these people are important and all I could say is ‘cool. I wish I could’ve met them’ because I have so many questions to ask them and I know I’ll never get them.”

“Ah.” Mr. Polsky looked back at the Queen Anne. His expression was unreadable, foreign. He didn’t know if he hecked up or not. He must’ve hecked up. "Son, let's take a break for now. I want to show you something."

Scattered through the trinkets in the backroom, where the deep-dive into the past skewed with the personal junk and stored collectibles, the man brought his fingers through a few books, all stuffy and caked with dust from an acacia shelf. Steven watched him take one out: brown and leather-bound, rope keeping it together as papers stuck out in rigid corners, extra memorabilia. He parted through the pages, staring into the faces of men and women with penmanship for each one.

_Jeffrey Hickens. 1749-1768._

_Marie Polsky. 1879-1930._

_Nera (Natalia) Polsky. 1886-1945._

A record book.

“Steven,” Mr. Polsky said, turning to a dog-ear, the face of a woman staring back at them. Elegant, royal, even with her grey-filtered sundress and bonnet. If Steven stared for too long, it felt like there was an acute sense of her gaze, printed eyes watching him from the dead. “Time is elusive, a bastard. I wish I could sock the lad in the face and ask him how it works but I’ll never have that.” A page turn. “You hear recounts of war heroes, of beautiful role models, of people you’d never get to see in your entire life. You hear them and think ‘why are they important?’ and then you get the answer and you aren’t satisfied.” A portrait of a man, scalp exposed to the camera in his proper attire. “Why do people leave? Why are journal pages empty when they could’ve been written? Did they love their lovers, their children?” His tone stiffened at the last word. “We could only speculate, rub our hands, try to move on. For all—”

“For all I could do,” he said, cutting the man off. The words were clogged now, stuck in his throat as Mr. Polsky looked over him, expression soft under the lighting. “All I could do is ask questions and get nothing in return.”

Mr. Polsky relaxed. His fingers brushed against one of the printed faces, of people who he knew that he would never be able to see, to hear, to feel.

Steven wouldn’t be able to see her. To feel her. To talk to her about why she did it. Why did he want to cry? Why did it feel so unfair? Why was he doing this now?

He rubbed his eyes with a sleeve, breath shaky. “I’m sorry, I’m gonna damage your stuff.”

“It’s okay. If you need anything, Steven, I’ll try my best to help.”

* * *

_**I always ask myself a question about my own health. Well, there’s a lot to take in but I forget how vulnerable I could be even though I feel like I’m at the top of the world sometimes. There are the writing entries, I’m doing it whenever I feel like garbage and it’s amazing. I could do goals each day and it’s the most grounding thing I’ve ever decided to put into my life. It makes me feel like I know what I’m doing, avoids the whole panic of being vulnerable.** _

_**But I know vulnerability is needed, I get it. I just have no clue how long it’ll take for me to get over Mom. There are so many memories that I know I’m trying to piece together and it’s overwhelming. I don’t know what I’m doing. I get upset when people ask me about my own history and I try to avoid those situations. I know there’s a lot to talk about; I need to bring this up again with my therapist. It’s just hard, and I want to admit to myself that it’s hard.** _

_**Tomorrow, I want to talk to Dr. Greene. I need to see if I could do more sessions about this; it feels important even after talking about it so many times. What she decides, I’ll stick to it. I don’t know if writing my thoughts down works too as something therapeutic, but it’s nice to just remind myself that I do have an outlet, that I have a place to let it go. So maybe I could tell her more about using it in that way other than just a travel thing? A mix of emotional journalism and cool thoughts about traveling. Is this a travel log thing? A diary? I don’t care, it works. It doesn't hurt to hurt, maybe a little, but it doesn’t have to all the time.** _

_**All I know is that I need to remind myself that I deserve to be happy and that stuff isn't going to be the end of the world. I don't know. I feel like I'm rambling. Maybe I could ask Connie for some hugs tomorrow, too? Yeah, that would be nice. I'm getting really tired and maybe a nice rest could make tomorrow better.** _

_**Regarding Mr. Polsky, I think I’ll give him another visit after a few days of rest.** _

_**Anyways, goodnight.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cloysterbell has made some art for this on Tumblr, feel free to check it out [here!](https://cloysterbell.tumblr.com/post/617941888889176064/read-doesnt-have-to-be-solo-by-borkthemork)


	5. Commonwealth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commonwealth is Massachusetts.

Steven was surprised to find himself in the hands of so much company, not because he considered the idea of being friendless for the entire trip, but more so startled at who he befriended along the way. There was Mr. Polsky, who was seventy-nine. Hailey and Bree, who were thirty and twenty-nine respectively. It was a slow-stringing list of contacts, stubborn in how it grew with each new place he went. And the list would continue with mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, loose-cannons, anyone who found their way onto Steven’s path. All adults, he realized. But no young adults. 

The thought of it never occurred to him until he arrived at the outskirts of his new home, where Erstam was the next blip on the map.

Erstam was a town in the middle of the wilds, a small blot of civilization in a sea of forestry, smelling of nature, speckled yellow and green and orange from the changing seasons. People who inhabited the establishments were, surprisingly, not older than him. Many of them were college-age, still having that keen sense of youth just like him. Many, Steven noted, still had baby cheeks or lack of beard just like him, which made his heart soften at the thought. From what he researched online, the reason for the flurry of young adults was from the college campuses sprinkled about the small town and how, through the young demographics and the chaotic atmosphere, it could only be seen as just a college town even with its immense sense of peace and brush of history.

That didn’t mean he was disappointed. He was more excited than anything! The apartment he was living in had the same accommodations as the college students, so when it was early — scratching his belly while making food for himself at the bed and breakfast, rubbing his eyes while waiting for the waffle maker to bake his food to rich-brown heaven — he would encounter people passing by. A lot of them were in their own groups, laughing with each other. Handbags. Beanies stitched with pins. Laptop bags slung over their shoulders. A few pulling up old backpacks. Smokers idling outside for a puff. Some stayed in the breakfast area to gobble up maple-soaked sausages, not paying him any mind. There were times where he would also listen in, trying to inch near their tables, before realizing how creepy the whole thing was and returning back to his own. But still, he observed, watched them talk amongst themselves without a care in the world.

There was a humanity to everything he observed around him. Well, they _were_ humans so it made sense for him to listen in, but it was weird to be around people the same age as him. Other than Connie — who had worked herself to the teeth — this was the first time he’d seen people at the same range as him who were okay to babble about stuff he always wanted to do, to talk about their lives rather than the stressors of war, collateral damage, and a world outside of the hemisphere. They would take some moments to groan about schedules or tell their friends of the newest trend, and, after they were done, ask the other for a drink before class.

It was nice to see people his age, just laughing and having fun. Something about it panged his heart. Was it a sad thing to look through the days he was there, just listening in and feeling envy, remembering how memorable it was to listen to the undergraduates talk of classes, English assignments, online deadlines?

He struggled with this question for a long time, trying to grow the courage to say something for once. But that was the problem. How do people talk to people their age? He knew how to talk to Connie, how to talk to Peedee, and Patricia, and Daniel, but they were special cases. Connie had been with him for years, been with him through the creation of Era Three, his most embarrassing moments from twelve years old to the current day — no one else could compare to her. For Peedee, he knew him when both of them were carefree (kinda, not really), and to be fair he only talked to Peedee once or twice a week now so he doesn’t really count. He didn’t even know Patricia and Daniel on a personal level, only venting to each other about family matters and bonding over the differences of the gem and human worlds. For all he knew, people had different experiences. Maybe they didn’t go through traumatic experiences like him? It sounded selfish now that he thought about it, but the point was that he had no reference, no real way to talk to them. If only he kept that _How to Talk to People_ book; didn’t help him back then but maybe it could work now? Was he thinking too much? What if it was just simple and he was just thinking too much?

> **11:30am** **Berry** yeah you might be thinking too much, steven
> 
> _Read_

The answer Connie gave him made him shift on his bed, still in his pajamas as he readied himself for a new day. It wasn’t comfortable like his prior apartments, what with the wooden bed frame around the edges and the noticeable squeak in springs, but it made do. The cushions he requested for his back helped too.

> **11:33am** **Berry** it’s hard when you don’t want to overthink it but i find that the best way is to start small and do it either way
> 
> **11:34am** **You** But Connie, you have friends, could you at least give me some tips on how to do this?
> 
> **11:34am** **Berry** yeah sure
> 
> **11:35am** **You** Pretty please with a pie on top? I know that I want to look cool in front of them, or just calm and collected so that they think I’m someone just like them.
> 
> _Delivered_

He cursed under his breath. She was too fast.

> **11:35am** **You** Oh wait, you will?! Sweet!
> 
> **11:36am** **Berry** ngl casanova but you don’t need to look cool to be cool at college
> 
> **11:37am** **You** You sure? If they’re like you, then they must have their whole life together and are fighting over the president’s seat as we speak and I don't think my previous gem diplomacy stuff would make me fit.
> 
> **11:38am** **Berry** i’ve seen one of my tour guides scream and dive into a trash can when his friend from across the campus told him decay constant 3 was in production
> 
> **11:38am** **You** What?
> 
> **11:39am** **Berry** you’ll fit right in, steven. if someone says they have their life planned out since they were little then they’re wrong
> 
> _Read_

But...didn’t she…?

> **11:41am** **Berry** and besides, young adults still have a lot of ‘teen’ in them. they’re more like us than you think, it’s not like we’re just going to be philosophers at age 18...even tho that sounds awesome and would get more of us to think about our current plane of existence and living and how we shouldn’t destroy our present habitation
> 
> **11:42am** **You** You’re getting philosophical again.
> 
> _Delivered_

Was he even using the word right?

> **11:44am** **Berry** all i’m saying is that you’ll be fine, college students are the same as you. i mean not in every way but they could understand the struggles like stress or past mistakes or anything like this. you’re not alone in this, babe
> 
> _Read_

He faltered at the screen. He’d seen forums where people talked about their feelings. Of people opening their hearts to someone after a long time. And there must be a reason therapists exist in packs. How many would know about pressure and fear, though? How many in college would accept him into their ranks? He bit his lip. What if this won’t work?

> **11:44am** **You** Okay. I’ll see what I can do, Strawberry.
> 
> **11:45am** **Berry** you’ve got this, biscuit. i believe in you
> 
> **11:45am** **You** I’ll make you proud, I love you
> 
> **11:46am** **Berry** you always find a way to make me proud i love you too <3
> 
> _Read_

He will. He closed the app.

▢Have some fun.

* * *

Connie told him that the first thing when it came to befriending people was finding a thing in common. It was hard to find something that could fit with the college students who passed, but he did spot the opportunities when they came and went; some would talk to him when they were bored, waiting for a friend to get dressed, at the charging booth, or when they needed space to do something for a class. This was how he met one specific man at the apartment, who never hesitated to plop down onto a seat opposite of Steven and begin a new talk every now. Steven didn’t know how this all started or why him in particular. It might’ve been the stickers on his laptop. A few weeks prior he decided to buy a few stickers for himself to customize his laptop surface, one of them being the titular main character from his comfort show _Crying Breakfast Friends_ , and, in an instant, Joshua pointed them out after a quick glance up from his computer. It was interesting to look back on. He always had Connie to talk about the show, but Steven never encountered someone else near his age who was enthusiastic over it.

First time for everything, right?

His name was Joshua Armani and he was an engineering major who took courses at the one out of five colleges in the area — Erstam Private University — and ignored when Steven would peek over at his work. He never minded the attention, the talk from supposed strangers, and seemed to find him an acquaintance instantly when the topic of CBF came to the conversation.

As he ticked the days off his calendar, the moments where he would see Joshua became more frequent, and with it came more time to understand who he was. What Steven realized, however, was that the time he started talking with the man more came at a portion of Josh’s schedule where his semester became more hectic — midterms were settled a month ago, but now his curriculum was ramping up, needing more time for him, which meant that he’d stuff his nose to a laptop the same as Steven, jet black hair starting to grey at the tips near his scalp. Peaking over his shoulder, Steven saw him fidgeting with a program, creating a model that looked reminiscent of a motorcycle axle.

“What ya’ doing?”

“Crunch crunch crunch.” Joshua tapped his pinky fingers onto the keys, groaning a little. “If I don’t get this model done by a deadline I’m very screwed, Steb.”

“Deadlines?” Oh right, deadlines. The things normal teenagers had.

“Yeah.” His hands went through his hair, gritting his teeth. “Crunchtime. Every time this happens I have to stop myself from screaming, even though screaming is my only way to cope.”

Steven had heard Connie talk about crunch times before; “They’re akin to torture in small intervals,” she once said in her fifteen-minute breaks, looking more ragged with each sliver of exasperation.

“Right. Screaming isn’t a thing people like in public.”

“I wish it wasn’t looked down upon.” Joshua mused, humming to himself. He was browsing through tabs of different car models, fidgeting his fingers. “Do you understand how much fun it would be if every college student in this town — like, basically everyone — had that one moment to just scream?” He cackled all of a sudden, rubbing his hands. “The _catharsis_.”

Steven leaned more on the table, beaming at him. “Why don’t we do it right now?”

Joshua stopped, turning to him. “What?”

“You know,” Steven motioned to the exit. “I’ve got a guitar, I could start a jam outside so that all of us could just scream.”

“Wait, we can’t do that.” Joshua frowned, rubbing his scruff-covered chin. “We don’t have the stuff.”

“Hmmm.” He had a few aux cords in his car. All they needed was a speaker and a microphone. One of the bar owners he befriended had equipment just for band performances. He wouldn’t need them until night. Maybe...just _maybe_. “This town has the equipment; let’s just ask one of the bars to borrow it for an hour. It’s like anyone’s going to stop us.”

“We can’t just ask people for stuff.” Joshua, even with his uncertainty, looked more lively than ever, a spark in his gaze.

Steven, the legendary t-shirt cannoneer, boardwalk mayhem enthusiast, and gravity-defying schemer, smiled at him. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

And it didn’t.

It was a planned event. The pulling of aux cords, the stuffing of his car with huge speakers and guitar thrills, and the messages between him and Joshua promised that the man will definitely play a part with the ‘scream sesh’ when Steven’s done. There was still that thrill, that nervous anxiety, but now he had a reason to pull himself into another center of calamity. His own form of enjoyable chaos.

He would drive around the town for the requests and in those requests he would inevitably spread the word of the event like wildfire. The bar owner chuckled, allowing him to take what he needed, and he’d keep roving around for permissions. Permission to do a musical event at this hour. No, at this evening. In the Erstam park? Yeah, sure! And he’d grab the permits, a soundhole pickup, finding the giddiness in his chest spread to the tips of his fingers with the event becoming more grandeur in his head.

There will be people. They needed a show and he had the talent to do so. And Joshua will be there — music knowledge to boot — with his friends or random people, who knows? All Steven knew was that he wanted to show him what they could do, that screaming was okay every once in a while as long as there was screaming. Screaming with only catharsis in mind.

The strike of twelve came. It left him scratching his head as the permit got him access to the main platform of the park — a stone platform, enough for a set up if he gave himself an hour to get everything onto it. Maybe the speakers could be over there near the back? The structure of it should be able to bounce, to amplify the music.

“Hey, Steb!” Steven turned around to see Joshua walking towards him, waving a phone-occupied hand. “Got your message! Need help, right?”

“Yeah, I need you to get all the cords from the car,” Steven ordered. Before the man left, he shouted quickly. “The car’s on the left!

“Got it!”

The start of it was where both of them had to coordinate. Steven knew what coordination was; Joshua looked like a deer in the headlights when given a role of leadership so Steven kept himself in his current position, allowing Joshua to grab a spare guitar (a bass). The two took position, watching the people pass by — some starting to glance over at them in curiosity. What were two young adults planning to do with a stage like that?

“What song we doing?” Josh asked him, looking nervous at the small attention.

“Hm?” Steven looked up from the guitar. “Was tuning the pegs.”

“The song,” he was getting jumpy at the knees, fumbling with the mic stand in front of him. “I can adapt, but we need to plan the same song.”

Steven frowned, scratching his chin. “Right.” Then it hit him. _"Sadie Killer and the Suspects_.”

“Oh!” The college student beamed. “I know those guys!”

He smiled back. “Then we could—what about Disobedient?”

Joshua plugged himself in. The speaker screech getting more peoples’ attention as it died down. “Perfect.”

There was a truth to music. The ability to find yourself tapping to the silent beat, the anticipation of the thrill, the beat of something new. What else was there but solidarity? The ability to make yourself seen in the best way possible?

“Bass and electric version. We switch between verses. Harmonies at the chorus.” Steven told him, then leaning towards his own mic, now plugged up to the speakers. “We’ll be starting in a moment.”

“We could scream the lyrics, right?”

“We’re the singers.” Steven giggled, hearing the growing whoops from the crowd when he started off with his own prelude — curved and strong, the whistles in response making him fuzzy. “It’d be boring if we didn’t!”

The tingle was back. Through the tips of his fingers, to the buzz of his head. There was something electrifying about seeing the people accumulating in the front at the starting zip of his strings. They wanted to see what they could do. There was anticipation for something great.

“Hello Erstam, are you ready to make some noise!?” The cheers hit him like a wave, the smile on his face growing by a mile a minute. “For all you indie lovers out there, this one’s for you!”

So might as well show it.

There came the tap, the kick. The beat. It rushed through him as he started it off, watching the crowd grow more starry-eyed at the sight of him.

 _“Good afternoon, sir."_ He could hear the bass now, heart starting to pound. _"_ _What can I do, sir?"_

The words spilt out, each ring in his ears reminding him of a metronome. Beats were the key, the tempo his reference. Go. Go. Tap. Tap.

 _“Just say the word, sir."_ The crowd became more of a crowd. The yells were resonant, rising through him. _"Anything for you, sir."_

Each lyric hit something. Deep and innate. Whatever it was, it led his voice to become raw, yelling them out as his pick made good work on shredding the tune. _"_ _Your friends all say, sir. You don't deserve her."_

 _“I disagree, sir."_ There was anger.

 _“I live to serve, sir."_ The fear of not being needed.

And when Joshua joined him, there was a unity in the way both of them yelled out. This was their frustration, a mess of frustration, a pile of spite, vexation throwing itself out into the wind — the crowd acknowledging the feeling, swimming in it, yelling back at them.

 _“I think about all the wasted time I spent._ ” He lost so much time.

 _"I shoot awake wondering where my summers went!"_ Steven gritted his teeth, voice cracking like a whip.

 _“I wanna be disobedient_ _!"_ He gripped the microphone, laughter his drug as the crowd screamed for them.

There was laughter, howls from the many.

His heart was about to burst.

In the spur, he found himself strutting, swinging his hips. Throat ripped, about to shred, he could feel the imaginary spotlight, the flashes on his figure. He was the star of the show, he was the creator of the noise. No one will take that away from him.

In the corner of his eye, he spotted Joshua doing the same thing. He was moonwalking, gesturing towards the crowd, letting the cacophony blow up like gunshots. There was a wildness in the gleam of his eyes. He was the same as him.

Both of them needed this.

* * *

“Holy crap, that was awesome!” Joshua was giving him a tight embrace, both of them cheering each other on. “Steven, you’re right, you madman!”

Steven could feel the adrenaline pumping, shaking the man in front of him in his hold. “No regrets!”

A scream back, more throttling from the both of them. “No fucking regrets, dude!”

The crowd had dispersed moments prior, leaving the park to themselves. Steven had no clue how long they’ve been there, but now the sun was dipping back to the horizon. A lot of time on their clock. What now? He’s not going to go back to his apartment, he’s too hyped for it; it took him minutes to wrap up the aux cords, to unplug all of their equipment into storage and back into his car, for Pete’s sake. What was he going to do now that everything’s over?

But Joshua seemed to have a solution for this when told about this: “Come meet my friends!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he said, nodding his head in a silent beat. Josh had the same earworm just like him. “You’re really cool, and they’ve given you a formal invitation to our ranks, ala through me.”

“That’s…” His mouth was agape, heart pumping in his chest. “...awesome! Wait, so, do they also…?”

“Music nerds. While you were packing up the rest of the stuff in the car they talked to me about you.” He said, doing a small wave with his hand. “And you’ll love them, trust me. Not only are they music nerds, but they’re also — wait for it” Josh started to drum the air with his fingers “— CBF fans!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!”

That was good. That was really good. He didn’t like the idea of not having something in common with most of them. If things got awkward maybe he could ask questions with the ones he didn’t know about. They should like a bit of television, music, hopefully.

Joshua appeared to have noticed his worrying, smacking his back with a friendly hand. “You’ll be fine man, we’re just going to have a nice talk and nothing weird’s gonna happen. They’re geeks, _my_ geeks.” He harbored a cheeky grin. “And with the performance you gave, they’ll love you no matter what.”

Steven chuckled. He closed the trunk, hearing it shut. “I didn’t say no.”

⊠Have some fun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @BellsnWhistles on Discord made fanart for the chapter, which can be found [here!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/716143508431568966/image0.png)


	6. Maineland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maineland is...Maine.
> 
> CW: Mentions/discussion of sex.

Anniversaries were an art form for Steven. He would take his time with it, getting tips and tricks from his dad on the phone, grooming himself in the mirror, making sure each anniversary with Connie fit the special occasion he had in mind. On their one month anniversary, he planned a movie night for the two of them, Connie leaving the day afterward with a new book, and, for him, a set of flash drives. At the halfway anniversary they enjoyed a concert, exchanging a few kisses in a gas station parking lot; Steven coming back home with a concealed bruise on his neck. Under the canopies of the Delmarva forest, cuddling in the back of the Dondai without a care in the world they celebrated their one year anniversary; Steven gifting her an art tablet while she placed a survival guide into his hands.

He had planned something for Connie for months now, and with winter coming it seemed like the proper time for another anniversary. What type of anniversary? Who cared! All he knew was that Connie’s birthday was coming and any day was a valid reason to celebrate who they were together. Whatever name he called their dynamic he knew what they had was important; their relationship was too special for the usual anniversary and dating restrictions. And he wanted to make sure it was intimate for both of them.

Maineland was next on his venture. And on time too, for this was the state they had in mind where they planned on living together for a while. It aligned with her winter break and Steven’s newest border move on the schedule. With those circumstances, he made sure that the place he settled in was perfect for them. Spacy, full of nature, rooms for cuddles and kisses. The perfect home for them to rest and catch up on the daily news between them — road trip shenanigans on his end and the hellish process of admissions on Connie’s.

Steven was able to find a comfy set of cabins set in the coast of New Arbor. It was perfect: the coastlines with their rigid scrags, the small townie atmosphere with the sparse wooden cottages, and the state's lovely green fields of trees. It gave enough space for Lion to roam around in his spare time, slurping lizards and scavenging for himself, and, with Connie’s stay, they’ll be allowed to have their own beds, their own kitchen and space together. They talked about the plans extensively before the major trip and it sounded like a dream! There was a compromise, a sense of accomplishment. They could finally have twenty-one days to be with each other, and that’s more than Steven could ever hope for in these circumstances.

“Winter break’s always a plus,” she told him when she and Lion landed onto the front of their new home. The lull of the sea nearby was rhythmic — the cry of seagulls, the gossip from far-off citizens and tourists, the scratch of boxes as they were placed down onto the wooden patio. But Lion looked ready to sprint off, annoyed by the ropes that dug at his fur. “I’m so excited that I’m finally allowed to stay with you. It took _ages_ to get my parents to chill out.”

He gave a dry chuckle and grabbed one of her bags. It was cardboard, strapped by a thin layer of heavy-duty duct tape, carefully placing it down near the rest. “Is it because of the whole sleepover logic?”

“That we’re of the opposite sex and fucking is a consequence of it? _Yes_.” She huffed. A few more boxes were being unloaded, Lion pleased with the lesser weight. “I mean, I get it, they’ve been protective of me since I was young, but it’s not like I don’t think condoms exist.”

Heat colored his cheeks. The prospect of intimacy never hit him until now, but he didn’t want to think about it too much. 

“Well,” Steven put on a smile and lifted a hand up, “as your boyfriend, I’ll always use a condom unless you don’t want to.”

She choked. “Steven, quiet down!”

“Why?”

“People are gonna hear.”

“But you were just talking about sex a few seconds ago.” At his smug look, Connie placed her hand onto his face. Both of them were in giggles. Steven tried his best to pull her fingers from his mouth. “Stop!”

“Say uncle!”

“No!”

They continued to wrestle until Lion grunted at them, annoyed with the rest of the luggage still on him. It left them to once again unpack, the animal shaking his fur back to normal when all of the ropes and baggage came undone.

“You feeling good, Lion?” Steven allowed his fingers to part through the lion’s fur. He chuckled when the animal turned his head away. “Sorry for all the weight. There are _Lion Lickers_ in the fridge if you wa—”

Steven wasn’t able to finish his sentence as Lion bounded off, squeezing through the open double doors of the building. He flinched at the creak and thud that accompanied it. “Oh boy.”

“He’ll be fine,” Connie reassured him. Her arm went around his waist. “Just excited that we’re staying under the same roof.”

“How long has it been since we've done this?” His arm wrapped around her shoulder, the hold tight between them.

Connie pressed her head against him. "Almost a year." There was a languid motion to how she nuzzled him, too tired to even speak. "Your dad's amazing. Who knew camping could settle the nerves?”

"I did." Well, kind of. There were some camping trips that didn't settle the nerves at all, where he was young, desperate for communication. "Sometimes you have to get away from it all. Treat yourself for once."

Connie hummed, allowing both of them to sway in the cold, the warmth of the other keeping them flushed, relaxed under the circumstances. "Steven, let's get everything inside. Does the building have a fireplace?"

"Yeah!" He pulled away. With a heave, he found himself lugging a suitcase — black, heavy as bell weights — into the living room, Connie following with a few others of her own. "I could show ya', except the owners said it needs a key to activate it and I’ve been going crazy trying to find it."

"I’ll help, it's freezing!"

With that, their stay together had begun.

* * *

It’s been almost five months since he had started his journey on the road, and that realization hit him like a mallet now that he was given a moment to settle down, especially when it came to his own body. All of it happened in intervals. There was more and more facial hair. Small patches, irregular and popping up at random, taking time on his cheeks and chin. Prior before this, he would sweep them off with a quick whip and shave, and that would be that.

But it all started adding up over time. He noticed his hair was getting curlier, more grown out while on his travels. Previously he kept it short. He didn’t know if he was ready to let it all out right now, considering how much time it took to maintain and keep it alive and well. There were the new stretch marks on his belly and thighs. And the sight of his full figure in front of the mirror in the apartments; not tough and broad like his pink form, but a transition to something that felt more like him, a more adult version of who he was. It made his heart flutter. It’s been so long since he had his own growth spurt, a moment of pride, and whatever was happening on this trip, it was starting to become more noticeable to him. 

For Maineland, he decided to make a more conscious decision on the second day. Dragging himself out of bed, the morning seeping through the blinds, he found himself under the gaze of the bathroom mirror. A small wooden radio on a high ledge filled the air with soft tunes. The tiles under him bit his feet with the cold. Gazing at his new fuzz on his chin, hand now taut with a razor in his fingers, there were a few seconds of silence as he took the sight in.

It was a graze of facial, yet there was hesitation to let it be scraped clean. It must’ve been the sight of him, the fact that Connie was snoring loudly outside, and everything else about this whole situation. There was domesticity present, staring back at him all wonder-like. A look of a young man that woke up from a beautiful night with his love; the creak and tender symphonies of the radio; the comfort and silence of the early morning home. It was a choice that took him minutes to decide upon.

And then he put the razor down, resolving to take a shower instead.

Connie had her own growth as well. Aside from her upcoming birthday bash, she had a lot to talk about with him now that she was given a month to rest. She finished her admissions, continued extensive periods and intervals of her cram school sessions and professional workshops, and with that came the satisfaction of congratulations and hugs from him. One thing he gave her, specifically, was the ability to rest with him for twenty-one days before she decided to go back to working once again. He knew how important the admission process was, but Steven knew she needed some rest. She deserved it after all that.

Time allowed her to grow into a beautiful woman. He had seen her progress through the years before his departure — when they had time to see each other when they weren’t busy on phone calls or in person, but now that he gave himself a moment to take her in, he couldn’t help but notice how much she's changed. The way her muscles became keener in the light as she filled out, how her jawline grew sharp with the loss of baby fat and the way her physique and gait told the whole world that she knew what she was doing. Something about it walloped his heart, left him smitten when they sipped coffee together at the dining table or rented canoes for coastline travel. He couldn’t wait but grow alongside her, even if it was for twenty-one days.

It was the sixth day when the two of them settled down in the living room, both of them resting on the couch as the wind outside howled and raked against the windows. It was hard to peer through the glass anyway with how the darkness clogged the view, leaving them practically blind to what the world was doing. But that didn’t matter now, did it? Lion nestled in a cushion near the fireplace, Connie ushering him to scoot so she could put a few more pieces of wood into the dying warmth — watching it grow back to prominence with a fiery crackle.

“Happy anniversary, Connie.” He had his gift on his lap. Wrapped in present paper, speckled with cartoon penguins on a backdrop of blue, he watched her unwrap it with diligence, each finger working its way in careful tugs. There was no tearing, only the methodical removal at the tape and folds. “I know you’re going to Jayhawk in a few months so I wanted to make it special.”

“Now you’ve got me curious,” she giggled, still trying to take off the wrapping. “And you...Steven, this is a lot of layers.”

“I know.” 

Connie looked at him, then back at the gift. She continued unwrapping it. “How much wrapping paper did you use?”

“Uhm,” he scratched his chin, his other hand tapping on his knee. “A lot?”

“Steven, what do you—?” Then there was the gasp. Pulling off the endless amounts, Steven watching them occupy the space between them, her hands plucked out five gifts from the fray. Five moleskin journals. Each one had their own little initials on the front in gold color. “Steven, oh my God.” She showed him the yellow-ribboned moleskin, the initials spelling out ‘Graph Planner’. “These are so cute! How much were they?”

“Fifty dollars each.” Money wasn’t an obstacle, but he knew to keep it humble. “Well, it was fifty ninety-nine I think? It’s been a while.”

She looked at the others, eyes wide in wonder as she perused through. One had bullet points and calendars for planning. Another was decorated with graphs, of physics and calculus formulas. “There’s even a,” she showed off the green-ribboned moleskin, and how the bullet points listed on and on under pages titled with nothing but dotted lines, “I don’t—!”

Steven shrieked when she tackled him into a hug, leaving both of them to stumble off the couch and onto the floor. “Connie!”

“I love you, thank you so much!”

“I love you too!”

“Wait, the gift!” Connie got off him, looking around before relaxing at the sight of the gift box, which was perched on the coffee table. It was simple: sized enough to fit into one’s hands, wrapped in snowflake paper. No harm in sight. She grabbed it. The two were once again settled on the couch, breathless from the tussle. “Okay. Now, I put a lot of thought into this.”

He grinned. “Carry on.”

“You’ve talked about how you’ve started writing down journal entries,” she pushed the box onto his lap, allowing him to eye it, hold it in his grip. “So I got you—no! Don’t shake it!” Steven stopped, giving a tiny sorry. “It’s okay, I just didn’t want you to break it.”

“Conniiiee.” He beamed, getting more starry-eyed. “I’m so curious now.” If it was fragile then there must be a lot of value to it.

“Nothing’s stopping you from opening it, Biscuit.”

“I know, but I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Connie grinned more at that. “It took a while to get the money for this. Part-time wasn’t all that fun...well retail wasn’t fun at all, but I wanted to get you something special—something that could blow all my other gifts out of the water, in fact.”

He looked at her. “Even the _Lonely Blade_ stickers?”

She nodded. “Even the _Lonely Blade_ stickers.”

If she took so much time out of her days to get something for him, then it had to be special, something that she took careful time in choosing. His heart rammed against his chest, excitement tingling through his skin.

“Go on,” she said.

He began to open it, and what he found under all the paper made him look on in awe. Under the thin sheets was a box — small and black, a logo of a camcorder on its shine, SUMY printed in the corner in bold chromatic glory. His fingers rubbed at the sleek surface, holding his breath.

“Connie.” 

The explanation came to. “You didn’t like the idea of all your memories fading away and journalism could only do so much, so I got you a camcorder. You could take vlogs and record the adventures you have so that when you’re tired or need to look back, then you have the chance to do so.”

“Connie.” His voice broke. He didn’t know why the sight of the camcorder box made him cry, but it took a lot for him to not scream out, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. The smell of cherry. Of lavender, careful hygiene. “I love you so much!”

Her laughter made his heart flutter. “I love you too!”

* * *

**[RECORDING 11/09/20XX 00.00.01]**

**“Testing, testing. Check one two three.”**

**A tap leaves the lens shaky, Steven staring back at it with bewilderment. It's mounted upon a surface, the view of the Maineland waters and the ridge of the fishing boat were framing his figure behind him.**

**“Okay, yeah, it’s red. Definitely red.”**

**Another voice out of frame leaves him to stare asunder, giving a curt nod before bringing his focus back onto the camera.**

**“Gotcha Connie, I’ll be careful.”**

**He's sitting on an upturned bucket. Adorned in a brown vest, he's scratching his chin, peering at the camera.**

**“Okay, so. This is my first log; video log I think it’s called — vlog?”**

**He clears his throat.**

**“First vlog!”**

**A clap of his hands.**

**“Awesome, okay. So hello to...Future me.”**

**He coughs, rubbing his neck.**

**“I’ve gotta get used to the new features on this, but anyway, it’s my first time doing something like this and I hope you could find enjoyment in me, uhm, trying my best to get this darn thing working. Hold on.”**

**There is shuffling. The lens blots out for a few seconds. Shaking and cricks of sound are the only things one hears from the audio until the light floods in once again. The rippling surface of the water replaces the view of the main deck, Steven’s reflection staring back when he tips the view a bit more.**

**“Here’s the deal right now.”**

**He pulls the camera back up.**

**“Me and Connie are trying to do everything we can until the snowfall, which...starts early this month? All I know is that November’s going to get heavier as the days go on and I don’t want that to happen just yet. That’s why we’re on a boat — Connie’s doing some fishing right now but I’m staying out of it. I’d rather just take in the waves of New Arbor more than anything. It’s pretty peaceful here.”**

**The frame lingers on the water. On the horizon, the jutting of adjacent coastlines is prominent, the trickle of the boat against the calm waves.**

**“Not gonna lie, I haven’t done video stuff since I was a kid.”**

**Steven’s chuckle is there. Weak, but there.**

**“You remember my old videos, right, Future me? I had a camera and I just kept going on and on about random video ideas for the channel. Something about cooking with Lion and show reviews?”**

**Silence. A slow pan of the coast.**

**“I wonder if I have my old TubeTube account? It would be cool to see how much I’ve improved since then. Gah, I don’t know. What if the old stuff I posted was really bad? All I remember is all the fun I had doing them but I’m scared that maybe they weren’t as charming as I thought they were?”**

**His voice lowers to a murmur before rising back up again.**

**“Actually, I should do that. After this video, I want to check them out. I’m going all over the place but it’s nice to have some direction with my thoughts every once in a while. I should write it all down!”**

**More shuffling of the frame.**

**“But I don’t want to close you off yet! You’re a tiny cute camera who’s only been out of your box for sixteen hours.”**

**There is a ‘humph’.**

**“All right. I’ll remind myself afterward, but for now, I want to show you the place. New Arbor’s pretty cool once you get used to it!”**

**For minutes on end, with an accompanying rock of the boat, the camera takes in the sights of the coastal village. The sun was high up at its peak, glazing the land with a thrum of energy, even when the wind was beginning to pick up, blowing into the camera audio. The heads of trees shudder and move in waves, and leaves the rustle as background noise — the occasional murmur between Connie and Steven happening elsewhere from out of sight.**

**After a quick pan of the sea, it frames onto the face of Connie — who's pinching another swatch of bait onto her hook, sticking her tongue out slightly.**

**"And here's one of the natural wonders of the world."**

**"Steven." She lifts a slight hand to the frame. "You've got the wrong one."**

**"Nope, I’ve got it right.”**

**"You sure?”**

**“Pretty sure, babe.”**

**“Nope. I know a world wonder when I see one, especially if I've lived with them for a week."**

**There is a choking noise out of the frame, Connie cackling as a response.**

**"No fair! I wanted to be classy!"**

**"Well, my classy man, you're doing a good job."**

**"Shut up!"**

**Even with Connie in frame, her laughter is resonant with his, and, after a second, she disappears from view.**

**"With pleasure, Mr. Universe."**

**[ENDED 11/09/20XX 00.15.25]**

**[LOG 000001 ENCAPSULATED]**

* * *

Maineland had the most abundant trees when it came to exploring and driving around. Steven and Connie had their own swathes of forestry back in Delmarva, and Steven had seen the hills in the other states thriving with oak and maple. But Maineland was the state that bragged that it was the king of nature and, with the start of snowfall, the expanse became a king of chilly fantasy as well. The sun would get blotted out by days of cloudy weather, of snowflakes dancing in the sky as they made their way to the cold earthy grounds. And with that came more excuses to get warm, to be close and loving.

Steven and Connie would take turns putting pieces of wood onto the campfire. Snuggles and kisses in the warmth of the hearth, blankets around each other as they worked on their laptops and phones — trying to find a new route to take with the calling of winter. They could go on Lion to avoid the hassle but where’s the fun in that? Instead, they found a way to get their hours in. Trails and cold trips to the nearby towns and attractions were a common pastime for them, sipping cocoa and coffee at the local coffee shops and watching movies from historical theaters. Steven made sure to keep himself tuckered in thick jackets and beanies, grabbing the gloves on the way to the door, and then getting gobsmacked by Connie at the door, prepared but now suffocating in thick layers of clothing — who, even with protests from him, said she was fine and was waiting for his go-to.

It was a romantic thing. Well, it depended on the scenario but there was always some form of romantic gesture to it. There were cold ears and raw noses in the bask of the clouded sunset, moments contemplating — gloved hands intertwined — outside a local restaurant. Quiet walks back to their cottage on lamp-lazy haze and the wisps from their breaths. Even with the shudder of skin and the curse of winter, there was this joy, this skip of a beat, when Connie was with him. It reassured him that the day was cold, downtrodding, but he wasn’t going to be alone. No one deserved to be alone. And that reminder kept itself seared into his brain when both of them would retire for the night, boots slick with water at the door, parting for the bathroom with tiny kisses and ‘I love you’s.

The days passed like this, winter bliss with the other, cozy reveries in the dark until, finally, it was the twentieth of November. Connie’s birthday.

Steven decided against the use of another present. Instead, Connie was awakened to her jarring phone alarms, each screeching into her ear one after the other even when her fingers tapped onto the snooze button; she knew the game, kept the alarms (5:00, 5:01, 5:02, so on and so forth) in rapid succession before her tired mind could even comprehend or go back to the sheets. But in the grievance came a whiff of something new: the fresh scent of heat, of light vanilla, of melted butter. She almost tasted it on her tongue, gritting her teeth when the alarms kept blaring.

The phone was silenced. Connie found herself stumbling out to the living room. Lion was still there, snoozing to himself while pressing his snout to the embroidered cushions. And the fire hadn’t died, seeming to have burst alive with another fresh batch of wood from the firewood rack. She then became aware of the buzz, the quiet tune from the kitchen. Walking in, she saw her lover still in his pajamas, now covered in a white apron; he was flipping pancakes at the stove, humming along to the kitchen radio, swishing his hips. “ _You can't hold me down, only I can do that. Bo-bo-bo._ ”

“Steven?”

The man turned his head, adorned with a toothy smile. “Hey Berry, good morning!”

“It’s five a.m.”

There was the sizzle of the dough, the sight of remaining batter in the mixing bowl near him.

“I know. Got up at four.”

That took her by surprise, voice rising a bit. “That’s too early, what are you doing?”

“Making pancakes.” A glare from her. “Sorry, sorry! I wanted to surprise you, today’s a special day after all.”

“I don’t doubt that. That looks delicious, Biscuit.” 

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, loving the purr from him.

“Thanks.” He grinned at her, voice soft, hips still moving to the radio. “I’m going all out just for you.”

“Oh?” She tucked the mixing bowl into her arms, starting to churn the batter with the whisk. “What’s the occasion?”

Steven snorted. “You forgot your birthday?”

She stared at him. “What?”

Then it hit her.

“Oh!”

Steven burst into giggles, his girlfriend’s cheeks darkening by the second. “Happy birthday, Honey!”

▢ Celebrate Connie’s birthday. 

* * *

“You’d think the process would be easy with admissions but apparently not.”

“With a brain like yours, you could do anything.”

The sky was of muted white, specks dancing about them as they huddled next to each other, holding the rails of the Pemaquid lighthouse in the beautiful quiet. The horizon was fogged up, receding into the unknown, and all Steven could do is squint, trying to find the rest of the coastline, to find the birds that haven’t filed off for the South.

“I’ll pass with flying colors.” She agreed. Her bottom lip was almost covered up by the many scarves wrapped around her neck. “It’s that the process takes so long. So many documents and calls and messages just to get yourself written into their lists. Might as well go to a JC and then transfer to a uni for a faster route.”

“Then why’d you take this way?”

“I don’t want any delays. Cram school got most of the gen education classes off my shoulders. All I've to do now is focus on finishing the years and get out without a second wasted.” She nodded to herself. “Yeah. That’s the plan.”

“It’s cool to see you have everything planned out so well,” he grinned, nudging an elbow into her belly, making her yelp a bit. “Mrs. Universe.”

“Well thank you, Mr. Maheswaran,” she snorted, giving him another jab back. “And it’s cool to see you exploring every part of the United States. People kill to have that.”

“I don’t think people would kill for it.”

“Nah, I think they would.”

“But that’s too mean! Why would you kill someone for a road trip when you could just go on the road trip?”

“We don’t all have rich dads, Steven.” She snorted, poking his forehead. He raised an eyebrow at her. “You have to add the gas mileage, money needed for rentals, etcetera etcetera. People get desperate and that includes getting money for road trips.”

“Then prove it, show me an example.”

Without hesitation she fished out her phone. “Fine, I’ll show you.”

There was something about the way Connie looked in the frame that made her look angelical, almost ideal. It must’ve been the atmosphere, the wonderland of snowflakes and cold that kept her in such a tranquil nature that Steven couldn’t describe. He couldn’t help but lean more towards her. When she looked up, she found herself at the mercy of one of his kisses, chaste and sweet.

He pulled away, cheeky at how dazed she looked, mouth agape. “Happy birthday.”

Steven felt her grip on his shoulders, being pulled into another kiss.

No chaste this time. Only pure rough giddiness, of deep passion.

When they stopped, they were breathless, smiling all the while. Little whispy breathes. Red-darkened noses.

“Steven, car.”

“Right.”

* * *

Aside from Pemaquid Point, the wilderness allowed for one to disappear into the cover without anyone batting an eye. And for Steven and Connie, it was the type of cover they needed to camouflage themselves and their car, parked in a random section of the woods where no one could see them, kissing and pressing each other in the back without a care in the world. Love was the drug of the hour, the tug of the other’s hands, and the thrill of being with the other. It was sweet, intoxicating to bear.

He found it a game sometimes; an intimate session of cuddling that made his heart pound as Connie wrapped her legs around his waist, letting his tongue in as the moonlight poured onto their backs — gasps and noise their little symphony in the other’s presence.

“I love you so much,” Connie murmured in-between, the other murmuring it back and diving in again.

Steven would fiddle her hair with his fingers, finding that they’re getting tussled, her growing bangs starting to dangle tufts between her eyes. And Connie would do that too, messing with his curls, allowing his groomed look to become wild from her touch. She found it attractive, kissing his nose, letting him kiss back with enough passion to knock one off their feet. Well, they weren’t on their feet so that removed one problem.

He kissed, took her permission in glee, allowing themselves to explore in giddy speed and languid pace. The beat of their hearts, the press of their clothed bodies, promises of being close even with breathless clamor. He didn’t realize how touch-starved he was until Connie started to live with him, and he took each moment with stride, both exchanging sweet nothings, the crick of nature outside their slightly ajar windows. It wasn’t cold to his surprise. Even with the snow drifting into a lazier fall, the heat from the other made it worth it. The pounce of lips and hums and childish giggles were enough. They could think about the cold later.

“I want to keep you forever,” he mumbled.

“Steven, I want—”

He locked Connie into another kiss. He pulled back after a second. Pants filled the air, fingers pressing against the other. “Sorry, what was that? I got too excited.”

“It’s okay, I’m excited too.” She grinned at him and pinched his nose. “Apparently I’m outmatched though in that department.”

“You’re the one who suggested this,” Steven said. He planted a light peck on her jugular — the other humming out in delight. “And it’s your birthday so more reason to go along with it!”

“Oh, so it’s a makeout gift then?” She smirked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you want your gift or not?”

“I didn’t say stop.”

They laughed together. Without a skip in their beat, they went back in, allowing themselves to fall into the thrall, pressing together more, letting the heat sear between them like a roaring fire. It was desperate, beautiful, slow between gasps. Take and give. Take and give. Let the other flood, feeling the ebb and flow, drowning in the other’s scent. One a strong musk of nature. Another of vanilla, of sprightly lilac. He was safe, whole-heartedly safe.

Until they parted again. Steven, shaken and tussled, noticed the gaze Connie had: it was distracted and parted, half-lidded in the dark. It wasn’t the normal gaze he saw from her, when she was in control and knew what she was doing; it was new, of hunger, a wanting that left her short of breath — for him, and for him alone. It made him stiffen, diligent fingers now hesitant on her shoulders, even when her grip on his waist kept its tight hold. “Hold on.”

“Huh?” Connie’s eyes still gleamed.

“I’m...wait, hold on.” He had himself locked up, looking at her. A weight sunk into his gut. “Wait, let me just…”

“Steven.” The hunger was gone, replaced with concern, the twitch of her frown. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just.” The gut feeling was still there. It left him disquieted, jumbled.

“Steven.” She was now scooting herself up, Steven awkwardly pushing himself as well. There was a press of shame, the inability to continue. He didn’t know why he hesitated but it made something pang in his heart, unable to look at her as she stared. “We don’t have to continue if you’re not comfortable.”

Steven heard it: a change to her voice, an illegible tone to her. He had no clue if it was some type of guilt or remorse or something he pulled out of her without realizing it, but it made him heavy, terrifyingly heavy.

He fumbled with his fingers. “I know that.”

The pang of the snow against the windows. The snowfall was starting to get heavy. “Then why did you hesitate?”

“I don’t know. I’m,” he gave himself a breath. He didn’t want to raise his voice, he wasn’t the type of man to do so. “I don’t know, Connie.”

“Steven, I’m serious. You’re never obligated to go far if you’re not comfortable.”

“I know, I know that.”

There it was. The awkward silence. Something about it made him more wired up, a spring tightly wound in the process. He tried to focus on the thump thump of the windows, how they’ll be stuck in snow-covered tracks if they stay for any longer.

Connie seemed to notice too. “We better get going.”

“Okay.”

They fumbled out of the backseats, the cold replacing the heat.

* * *

The drive back gave him a lot of time to think. And he didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

For one, he knew that it was okay to be opened or closed. He got told of this many times and it wasn’t hard for him to understand that, as a grown man, he was allowed to be intimate with people as long as he’s careful. He had the talk from his dad, sit-downs with Dr. Maheswaran in the kitchen; acknowledgment of it wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he didn’t want it. There was an encouragement around every corner — to take care of yourself and your feelings — but he felt confused over the expectations. He’d seen people fall in love, kiss and profess admiration and comfort in dire times, yet hesitation hit him the moment he took a glimpse into the intimacy, the one that meant more than kissing and makeouts, of kisses on bare skin. The experience was like staring into deep-end water. He could touch it, test it, but what would he find if he dove in? There was a chance for winning, for failure, for something new he didn’t expect to have. He didn't know if he wanted it or if the nerves took him to an anxious place. It was terrifying, absolutely terrifying. And what rattled him was the small glimpse of disappointment Steven saw on Connie when he stopped — small but enough.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, eyes glued to the road; the trudge and crunch of the street occupied the quiet between them. It felt dumb to think about it too much. He was an adult. He had enough time to think about it, he had a whole lifetime to ponder if he was okay with going forward about his own body. But he couldn’t lie that there was hurt somewhere, hidden and squirming its way between them and he was scared to even take notice.

With their boots perched at the door, the two of them parted for the night. No kisses, just solitary ‘goodbye’s before Connie went for the shower, pajamas in her arms.

He bit his lip and watched the light under the bathroom door go on, the hiss and squeak of the water heard through the walls. This wasn’t the situation he wanted to be in. And he would sit at the edge of his bed waiting, fumbling with his bedspread, listening to the hum of Connie’s voice. On-edge. Waiting for her.

The whole thing wasn’t right. Him sitting there didn’t feel right too. They only had half a week left before Connie returned to Delmarva. Four days to be together. It wasn’t like they were going to stop talking and having fun just because of a minor mishap. But after the car ride, what was he supposed to do when the timer ticked down, and Connie left the cottage without a resolution to be seen? The idea of another separation. Stiffness in texts or lack thereof. The unease would still be there, toiling in his mind, in the hesitation. The questions, the beat of his chest, the anxiety of not having a full talk. They had to talk eventually.

But what if she was mad? Frustrated? He couldn’t stand the idea of being part of Connie’s pain or stress, adding on to her burdens with each day that passed. But he wanted her to talk to him; they shouldn’t let another Aquamarine pull them apart because they were afraid to speak to one another, afraid to tell the other that something branded them with fear, their panic, their hesitation. They went against oppressive hierarchies and vengeful gems for Pete’s sake. This shouldn’t be an issue, it shouldn’t be at all.

Then why was it hard to stand up and tell her?

The door cracked open. He looked up: Connie was at the mouth of the door, dressed in a heavy shirt and pants. Her hums died down to nothing, the exhaust the only sound.

With a towel on her shoulders, she strode over to her bed. The pant cloth dragged behind her, Connie not paying heed as she covered the top of her pillows with the rag. The quiet kept on.

And it was so easy to let it stay there.

But he didn’t.

“We need to talk.”

“I thought we already did.” It was curt, formal, the type of thing Steven would hear when she needed a level-mind — when she was afraid to say something wrong.

He kept going. “We didn’t.”

Connie stared at him. His feet were aching, cold against the cold floor, but it wasn't the reason on why he shuddered. “Steven, like I said, I respect you. I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk about it.”

His voice was firm. The cold made his skin crawl, arms ridden with goosebumps. He shuffled himself and patted a newly-imbursed space on his bed. After a moment, she walked up and sat down beside him.

They listened to the howl of the snowfall, the creak of the cottage wood. He wrung his fingers, noticing that she was looking away from him, rubbing her arm. No lavender. No cherry scent on her, either. 

“I’m still confused about what I want to do," he said. He allowed his right hand to roam the surface of his left arm, feeling the body hair, the coarseness against his fingertips. A roadmap, a way to think. “I want to have sex with you; it sounds close and intimate and fun, but I—” 

He brushed against the trails of hair, one of his nails dragging themselves down the goosebumps like morse code. “—don’t know. I feel awkward over it because I never realized it would happen so fast.”

Connie gave a hum. She kept rubbing her arm, not saying a word. Gaze distracted, unfocused. 

“And how do you feel right now?” she asked.

He bit his lip. A sigh. “Still nervous.”

“Well, I won’t initiate until you’re ready so you don’t have to wor—”

“Not because of me, but because of you.”

She looked at him. “Excuse me?”

There was a shuffle of the blankets, an unease in his stomach. “You’re upset.”

“Steven.”

“And you’re not telling me what you’re feeling.”

She flinched.

“I know you’re trying to take care of me.” His hand intertwined with hers. Warm, solid, a tether in the disquiet. “But shouldn’t we take care of each other?”

It was enough for her to tighten the hold. A ragged exhale filled the air.

“I don’t want to be greedy,” she whispered.

“You aren’t.”

“It felt like it.”

Her voice was calm, but he knew better than to see it as such. It was restrained, held back; she still didn’t want to hurt him. “I wanted to keep going, but I knew you didn’t want to and I wanted to respect it. It should’ve been simple, yet…” 

Her sigh became raw, tired. “I still feel angry and I can’t stop it. My libido’s going wild now that I’m eighteen.” 

She gave him a pained smile. 

“I don’t like feeling this way.”

“That’s okay, though.”

“But I’m supposed to respect you, Steven.”

“I know, but it’ll hurt more if you keep it in,” he said. She shook under his touch as he brushed against her knuckles. “I’m still questioning who I am and what I want. I never really...had a moment to think my identity through, actually. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to experiment. I want to understand what we want _together_.”

“I just don’t want to make it feel like I’m forcing you.”

“You aren’t. You couldn’t.”

“It could happen, Steven.” She was calm, but Steven knew there was tremor to it, a fear of messing up. “Couples get swept up in the intimacy of it and I don’t want you to go through that. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“It won’t happen if we stick together,” he said. His voice was close to shaking. “Both of us know we’d never do anything to intentionally hurt the other. The only way we’ll keep hurting is if we don’t say anything.”

She struggled. The words failed to reach between them, and all he could hear were the attempts. They were weak in her throat, fragile, almost like she was afraid of saying something, anything to fill the silence. And perhaps that was the reason Steven found himself in the middle of her embrace instead, Connie’s head pressed to his shoulder. Amidst the ruffle of their clothes, the shuffle of their arms, they settled into a comforting stillness, and Steven could only hold her, listening to the muffled howls outside.

“Since this...goes both ways,” she mumbled. Steven gave a hum in response. “I want you to be honest with me if I go too far or when you’re ready. Take your time, please.”

“I will.”

They allowed themselves to rest on the other, their heartbeats a discreet song, a relaxing reminder that everything will be okay.

They had a lifetime to think this through.

⊠Celebrate Connie’s Birthday. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @BellsnWhistles on Discord also made art for the last scene. You can check it [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/708527093419474964/image0.png) and [here!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/708527094048751646/image1.png)


	7. Interlude One

**[RECORDING 11/26/20XX 00.00.01]**

**“Hello. Hello!”**

**Steven’s face fills up the screen. His hair is in a black beanie, jacket covering his upper body in thick layers. He is smiling, staring out of frame.**

**“Okay, it’s working. Hey, Future me, this should be...vlog ten? Yeah, it should.”**

**He gazes back to the camera then nods to himself.**

**“I’m here in the Adirondack Mountains.”**

**When he pulls away, the frame changes to a landscape view of a mountain range. They are decorated with ridden sprawls of white-frosted evergreen, the cumulus clouds floating above in packs.**

**A soft breeze hits the audio.**

**“Pretty cool, huh?”**

**The frame moves a bit and reveals a stone platform nearby, a thin layer of snow decorating it.**

**“So, back in vlog nine you saw me travel back down to Empire, and you never really saw how cool it was since the Dondai window doesn’t really show much beauty now, can it?”**

**Steven’s chuckle is light, content.**

**“And I found that unfair because why would I subject Future me to poor camera quality? You’re going to be more experienced than me and think ‘Oh wow, Universe, no high quality of the mountains? No beautiful cinematography? What gives?’ and I didn’t like the idea of making you think that’s all you’re going to get from me.”**

**The frame pans the sight of the landscape, moving to the stone platform. It turns back to him, who then sighs.**

**“I have so much to show you; the mountains are really cool, I forgot how relaxing it is to just explore valleys without thinking too much about being alone. I mean, I hiked before, sure, but I never had time to think and appreciate the place, right? So this is a great time to just** **_chill_ ** **out for once. A little R &R.”**

**Steven winks at the camera, then scratches his stubble — which is now covering a good portion of his chin.**

**“Anyway, it took some time for me to find a place to park but we’re okay for now. Winter’s surprisingly busy when it comes to traveling; I thought the only hassle would be snow and hydroplaning but nope! A lot of the areas are booked. This place is perfect though: lots of peace and quiet, not that slippery, and parking isn’t crowded. So yeah, today’s been a good da...”**

**His expression blanks.**

**“Wait. I might be missing something.”**

**Steven’s eyes flits over to the right.**

**“Did I use the emergency brake?”**

**Then comes the screech and rolling creak from out of frame.**

**“Oh God, wai—!”**

**[RECORDING PAUSED]**

**[RECORDING 11/29/20XX 00.10.15]**

**Steven stares at the camera, breathless. A few twigs are in his hair, which is now a nest of messy curls.**

**“Okay so, the Dondai’s fine! Started rolling down the path but it’s fine! Uhm—”**

**He looks out of frame, then back to the shot. Relief replaces his brief flash of panic.**

**“Yep, good. Forgot to use the emergency brake, oops. Turning the wheels can only do so much.”**

**He squints.**

**“Stuff’s in my hair, huh?”**

**Steven plucks a twig out.**

**“No matter. I’ll shower when I get back. Today’s not the time to think about my Dondai. Today’s the day to talk about how cool this valley is!”**

**The frame switches to the landscape again.**

**“Okay, so I realized something while I was checking out the place.”**

**The frame approaches the stone platform again.**

**“Check this out, wait for it.”**

**He goes silent, the only noise being the light breeze against the microphone.**

**"Echo!"**

**It takes a few seconds for the word to reflect back. What picks up was the reverberating from the valleys, his voice fading to the lands below.**

**"Hello!"**

**Once again, the word reflects back. Out of frame, Steven starts to cackle.**

**"Hold on, Future me."**

**The view of the valley changes. What replaces it is a wider view of the rocky platform and the mountains on the horizon. In the ridges of the shot is the surface of a rock. The frame stops trembling, steady at eye-level with Steven as he walks back — smiling at the camera with a wave of his arms.**

**"Alright, alright. Check this out."**

**Steven strides over to the edge of the stone surface. He yells out.**

**"I'm at the top of the world!"**

**The words booms and thunders about. The audio clips for a second as Steven laughs even more, enjoying himself, a cheeky smile on him as he cups his hands around his mouth.**

**"Conquered by Steven Universe!"**

**The sound warps through the microphone, ghostly through the transmission.**

**His laughter increases. He was dancing, bouncing on his toes.**

**"This is so cool!"**

**He began to yodel, the octaves and staccatos hitting him back. The man responds to each one with a wave of laughter. After a few moments of howling words into the valley, Steven trudges back and grabs the camera. A huff. An embarrassing giggle.**

**“We definitely need to do this more often, y’know? No one told me screaming into nature could be so fun!”**

**He bites his lower lip and looks out of frame.**

**“I know this is a short video; I just wanted to make a quick vlog for you. You’re low bat so I’m going to make sure to charge you in the car, but it’s nice to just get these moments on camera. Nice to look back on.”**

**Steven smiles.**

**“There’s a lot of stuff I’ve to think about and it feels nice to have an outlet. Hell, I looked back on a few of the vlogs and...it’s giving me a lot of ideas. What if I want to do video editing as a career? Or do something like those TubeTube celebrities would do? Create content like playing with crocodiles and showing off cool Earth stuff.”**

**His smile wavers.**

**“I don’t know. It’s hard to predict who I’ll be in a month. Or a year. Or a decade.”**

**He looks away for a second.**

**“But isn’t that the point of life?”**

**A hum.**

**“I guess it is. Anyway—”**

**He faces the camera again and waves.**

**“—goodbye for now!”**

**[ENDED 11/26/20XX 00.19.45]**

**[LOG 000010 ENCAPSULATED]**

⊠Yodel at the top of the world. 


	8. West Keystone

When winter settled in, Steven noticed something different about West Keystone. When he and his dad took their time in the country a few years back — eating cheeseburgers, watching the days go by with spare clothes in the back and soundtracks on the radio — he found himself staring out at fields of golden wheat, spiraling forth to rolling hills, more farmland as far as the eye could see. Oak, beech and maple trees satisfied him in a menagerie of color, lulling him to sleep when the clock struck one. He would rub the sleep from his eyes, the drool from his lips, the sun being the first thing spotted on the horizon rather than blotted chilly clouds.

But here it was, the state’s fields now empty and sparse, wheat and grass replaced by the harvest of snow and the gleam of the morning light against the milky-blue lakes. When he cracked the windows a flood of cold rushed in and left him alert, more awake than a cup of coffee ever could. The journey to Canton was filled with soft tunes from his radio and soft wonder at the season. He would take pitstops at the Uaua gas stations, chugging hot cocoa while it warmed his stiff fingers; growing boredom when the vacant fields transitioned to more vacancy, the ever-present curve and bend of the road. All of it felt familiar — too familiar, but enough to differentiate itself from the prior memories, which was better in the long run, even with his legs beginning to ache from this whole ride.

With the throb came the relief when he got a call from his phone, from the gems, for a quick talk; it was a reason for him to park somewhere and stretch himself out rather than stay cramped for hours on end. He drove to a park, grabbed a few of his belongings from the trunk, and made his way to a table. He was in a good mood today; he didn’t mind another call from his family.

It wasn’t long for the call to start up with Amethyst at the helm. Garnet was somewhere in the back of the voice chat, but he heard them both loud and clear, grateful that they initiated without further delay. He was cold, teeth digging into a prepared sandwich. Listening was much better than talking at that moment. 

“Yoo!” Steven grinned at the voice, the flicker of purple as Amethyst set up the table. Garnet sat beside her, a soft smile on her lips. “Is that a grown man I’m looking at?”

Jazz hands. “Surprise!”

“Steven!” She slammed a hand onto the couch cushions. “Holy crud, buddy, you’re killing me. It’s been so long and you have chin hair and everything! 

“Didn’t I call you guys about that?”

“Nope, you didn’t!” she said. “You texted me about it but holy sh—”

“Let’s not, Amethyst.” Garnet cut her off.

“Are you kidding?” Amethyst looked at her in exasperation. “He’s already eighteen.”

“Yeah, Garnet.” He chuckled, enjoying the antics through the screen. “I think Amethyst’s in the clear.” Steven harbored a smug look. “Actually, now that I’m eighteen...I wouldn’t mind a cursing contest, would I?”

Amethyst didn’t hesitate to yell out. “You’re on, man!”

Garnet didn’t stop them when the two did, in fact, do a curse-on, and Steven was grateful for it.

The conversation after that, however, came the usual chit chat. Amethyst seemed fine in going first, babbling for a few minutes about what was happening at home: Little Homeworld’s new array of students, Beach City shenanigans, everything she could think of as Garnet added the smaller details in-between. But it transitioned once again to personal matters, of his trip, of Connie’s visit, what he planned to do in West Keystone now that he crossed the border — which was, out of everything he had prepared, to settle down at Canton first before anything else.

“Ohh, Steman, you’ve gone to Cedar Point before right?”

“Not really. Dad and I didn’t go far if I could remember.”

“Well, now’s your chance! Rollercoasters might not have the same excitement high as fighting people but hey, still a rush.”

Steven chuckled. “I don’t know if I’ll check out the rollercoasters. I have a schedule after all.”

“Are you kidding?” 

Amethyst’s face filled up the voice call. Steven sipped from his soda and watched her take over the speaker. The sound of children passed by him. The park was busy even with the chilly weather, the crunch of snow, the flow and rustle of frost-layered branches. His phone was settled against the centerpiece of the table while he relaxed with his food, watching Amethyst talk and ramble to him, never missing a beat.

“You’re going to spend months out in cornland and you’re _not_ gonna try the coasters?”

“Sorry, Ames, have to keep to the schedule; I’d rather settle down before I go do something like that.”

“Off-topic,” she hissed, “you need to go to an amusement park asap. A. S. A. Wait hold up!”

Amethyst’s struggles through the speaker made him giggle, now replaced by Garnet’s voice, stoic as always. “What Amethyst is saying is go have fun, Steven. You deserve to go at your own pace.”

Amethyst’s voice piped up, a tad muffled. “Yeah, that too.”

“Aww, thanks guys!” It felt nice to be supported, even if his family had emphasized their encouragement for a long while. He scratched his chin, loving the feel against his fingers. “But I’m having a lot of fun, really. I just want to be careful because I can’t lug my stuff in the Dondai all the time. It’s going to hurt the poor thing.”

“No one’s giving you a hard time, right?” Amethyst asked, voice rising. “If anyone does, don’t hesitate to prove them wrong.”

He grinned. He tapped against the wooden table his legs ached against the wood, and the breeze whistled in his ears. “No one’s giving me a hard time.”

“That’s good,” Garnet said. Steven could imagine the nod through the screen even with how Amethyst blocked the view. “You know enough to defend yourself, Steven, you know what to do.”

“Yeah. Wait! That reminds me, I saved a deer back in northern Key—”

“Is that Steven!?” A new voice dropped into the call — neurotic, motherly as usual.

“Hey Pea—”

“Steven, I missed you so much!” Pearl’s voice sounded more like sobbing than congratulatory. “I’m so proud of you!”

“P, don’t hog the phone!”

Steven smiled more when Pearl became more recognizable in the fray of voices. “It’s been so long, Steven. How’s West Keystone? I hope you’re having a lot of fun!”

“I am, Pearl.” 

“He’s been talking about how he’s doing, P,” Amethyst reassured her, the screen now balanced to equal screen time between each of the trio, all relaxed on the couch. Most of them; Pearl was less resolved, to the point of apparent tears.

“I’m just so proud of you,” Pearl said. “You even have facial hair. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you with a facial hair and now you have multiple of them.”

“Oh shucks!” He waved, smiling cheekily. Pearl’s words made his heart flip. Even when it became a huge thing after the breakdown he still wasn’t used to all this praise. With the consideration and the awkward talks — which came with the questions of space, of healing, of whatever he needed to keep his comfort — there was still the belief that he deserved the feeling of pain and misery rather than the acknowledgment of care. Seeing the affection now still astonished him even with his daily dose and talks with Dr. Greene. The praise wasn’t done out of obligation, or what he perceived was an obligation. It was a genuine clap on the back for who he was becoming, who he’s shaping up to be now that he’s on his feet, kicking and sprinting all the way. 

“You know, it’s the whole puberty thing,” he said.

“I don’t want to be weird about the whole hair thing but, really,” Amethyst added and snapped a finger at the camera. “It suits you, man! Makes you look like an adult.”

“Awww, you guys.”

Garnet added in. “It’s a great step to maturity, Steven, and we’re all proud of you. Especially me.”

Pearl looked at her. “Garnet, I’m the proudest.”

“No.”

“But really guys, I’m so glad that you guys are here to support me.” He beamed. This whole thing relaxed him; it was just a nice catch-up with his family, and the whole thing made him feel like progress was actually being done. “I’m serious. I know I don’t call that much but—”

“There’s nothing to feel sorry about.” Garnet once again. “You’ve shown us that you’re capable of going out on your own, and we know that most of your time is used to enjoy yourself. No one should ever feel sorry for their own freedom.”

Garnet knew the words to make it sound right, correct. Of course, she did. “I know. I’m just excited to tell you guys about all this. There’s a lot of stuff I wasn’t even able to get to tell you guys before.” He pointed at Amethyst. “Like, I went to the nightclub you told me about in Empire. I ordered that weird ‘Meat Fireball’ challenge.”

Amethyst slammed the table. “Yooo! Did you stomach it all?”

“I threw up!”

She thumped her chest. “Still the champion!”

“And I met so many friends too.” He knew he was beginning to ramble, but he couldn’t help it.

His family didn’t seem to mind too as the minutes went by. He found himself enjoying their presence through the phone. Even with the distance and the reassurances of seeing each other, it was hard to get time to actually wave and talk about all of the stuff he had done throughout the months. He told them of the friends he made along the way — the numbers, the hugs, the promises of chats on the way to newer states — and he relaxed at the idea that the gems got it; they understood why this was important to him. They were still learning, but they were trying, and they were there to encourage and listen nonetheless. It made things feel less frightening, even when memories of the past, their indirect transgressions, made his skin crawl as if it were infested by ants.

Now that he thought about it, he did remember getting more nightmares lately. He got more of them when he had gotten too stressed to think, to process it all at such a restless time. Maybe it was the situation with his schedules or anything from past triggers to noise. And the hesitation to speak of this, and the inevitable reveal of his prior reveries, the details he could recall in vague terms, led to a topic that he hadn’t thought about for a long time:

“It’s all about the driving.” He started off, fumbling with his fingers. It’s hard to stare at the screen, especially from how they stared at him. “I would get dreams where I would drive on these roads — always long and weird — that I’m not able to get off of, always in Dad’s van, going somewhere for ages.”

“You’re getting nightmares of the van?” Pearl’s frown was apparent. 

He rubbed his nose and then placed his fingers to the point of his temple. With the cold, it was harder for his digits to feel anything other than numb pressure. 

“Yeah. I think it’s because of stress. Had to handle a lot of antsy stuff with being in a car for a while, and the talks I had to do with the hotel managers when I passed through Keystone and Empire were frustrating.”

“Are you sure you don’t need our help, man?” Amethyst asked. “The last time you went to WK you _did_ crash the van.”

Pearl glared. “Amethyst.”

“Hey, I’m right though.” She responded back. It wasn’t harsh, and Steven could tell she was worried, but it still sent a pang to his chest. “Maybe the whole event that happened between you guys is now part of your nightmares for a reason? Something about personal triggers — is that the right word?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I need to keep going. Maybe adjust my schedule so that I’ll have to sleep at ten instead of eleven.” 

The words tasted bitter on his tongue. It was hard to remember the time he trashed the van exactly, how he blacked out and found himself on the ground — buzzing, stung with pain as his dad propped him up. It made sense to feel the past weight on his chest; the revelation his dad gave him still made him livid. 

“Humans do need sleep,” Pearl mused, bringing her phone out in a spark of light. “But if the dreams keep happening, then that’s where it gets concerning.”

Garnet added on. “Don’t be afraid to talk to us, Steven, we’ll do our best to give you help if it continues.”

Unease clenched his gut. “Okay, okay, guys it’s just a nightmare. I’ll tell you anything about it if it keeps going but it’s not like it’ll keep happening.”

“Are you sure?” Amethyst frowned.

“I’m sure.” He didn’t want to tell them more, anyway. “Also, I got to start making my way to Canton. Forty minutes is up.”

There were audible groans from Pearl and Amethyst.

“Dude,” Amethyst was first. “I’m going to miss you, okay? Don’t be a stranger when you call us again.”

He put on a smile. “I won’t. Trust me.”

“I’m going to miss you always!”

“I know, Pearl.”

“And Steven, buy more gloves when you get to your destination. I don’t want your hands to get numb.”

“Gotcha.”

With that, he closed the call and allowed himself to rest his head onto the frosty surface of the table, propping the phone off its makeshift stand.

There was a lot to think about. West Keystone had the memories, the conceit, and he allowed all of them to flood back in: the pain of knowing his father was human and equally flawed as his mother, that for all the times he tried his best to scrounge through the past, it became more of a messy attempt to piece what was left in the aftermath of desperate lies and deception for the sake of their own freedom. Worst of all, he couldn’t change it, the timeline was all set somehow, unyielding. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, but it did. And what was he expected to think, knowing that his sore limbs were now another memory in a series of others that told him without remorse that his history would always be messy?

He had no clue.

He stood up, pocketing his phone into his jeans, and started to walk toward the parking lot. Before he could advance further he felt something push at his shin for a second. Looking down he saw a ball nestled against his shoe. A lone softball. He stooped down and grabbed it, allowing his fingers to brush against the texture — rough like leather, messy with dirt at its weathered stitches.

“Hey, mister!” Steven gazed up to see a tiny boy. He had himself adorned in a thick coat and jacket, a hat bigger than his own head covering the top half of his eyes. His frown showed one scraggled tooth out of a row of pearly white. “Can I please have the ball? My dad threw it too far.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” He threw the ball and watched the kid catch it into his gloved hands.

The boy beamed at him. “Thanks, mister! You’re the best!”

He observed the boy as he sprinted back to his dad, who was near the abandoned baseball field of the park, grey hair prominent on his head, shouting and encouraging his son to run back for another round of catch.

Steven smiled to himself, but something in his heart grew sour at the sight of it.

▢Go to Canton.

* * *

When it came to West Keystone, he had a lot of plans that didn't involve family. Of course, he would invite the Crystal Gems to voice chats when he had the chance or send them videos or posts of his trips to hiking trails or places around the urban areas — it wasn’t like he didn’t want them in his life. But whenever he came back home from a night of visiting the tourist attractions, he would take a moment to catch up with messages or texts, and when it came to the gems asking for invitations to see him he always knew that dabbling into bloodlines matters was going to make the road trip awkward for him — enough to make him bail out on the idea every time.

That didn't stop him from the thought of family in general; on the contrary, thinking about his human lineage came to mind. He had talks with his dad before. He asked numerous times about what his family was like, what life was like before the change with the Universe title, but all he got were the short answers, the distractions. Before the van incident, he thought there would be an opportunity to ask and become connected with that part of himself that felt empty, yet it all went down from there. He never really asked his dad about it after, even if he knew his dad was ready to talk to him, to open up about his world. What he found was a safe way of wondering about it: his Uncle Andy, who was unapologetic when it came to heritage. Steven would hit dial-up, and his uncle would be more straight-forward, telling him everything and everyone — the get-togethers, the parties, the drinks around the table. There was so much he wanted to know.

But it wasn’t enough. Even with all of these discussions of the past, on how the DeMayos harbored a great deal of other family throughout the United States, there was a growing want in him. It was of a fire, which swelled with every talk, memory, and history lesson, and when he came to West Keystone, it struck him down, leaving him breathless, fumbling for something new.

So when he saw the GPS — the town of Showne passing by to the right of the radar in little blips — he turned to the next exit. When he hit the crossroads, his GPS altering the route in its monotone voice, he revolved the wheel and made his way back to the town. Even with the GPS’s confused protests, he kept going.

Canton could wait.

There was this belief that he could change things — well, not particularly, but there was the wanting to at least dig deeper than the talk of background and tradition and everything else he got from Andy’s stories and anecdotes. If he could see the family members through pictures, then why couldn’t he knock at their door this instant and ask them for lunch? It wasn’t like it was going to hurt anyone. If they denied and closed him off from that part of his world then at least he tried, and he would continue to knock on the entrance if they shook their heads anyway. He wasn’t going to get this opportunity ripped out of his hands.

The drive to Showne was familiar. He remembered when him and his dad took a detour to the town and now the surroundings were more recognizable even with the changes: grand white treks dotted with trees, long-winded roads, suburban homes, garden gnomes, picket fences, dry patch gardens. He tried to remember the route, the places that looked memorable to him. 

He remembered a house that had a huge bush statue in the middle of their rose garden — which he passed by after a quick turn and noticed how fragile it was, thin and weathered. 

Then there was the recollection of the raucous dogs behind the black-and-white picket fence — which he encountered once again, flinching at the barks that slipped into the ajar windows.

The three houses in a row with the solar panels stuck to their roofs. Check.

A huge fountain congregated by beautiful cobble walkways. Check.

There were more turns, dead-ends, as he tried to remember the faces of the town he hadn’t been in for so long. His memory was a weird jumbled mess, but somehow the details came back with each back tread and curse under his breath until the familiar house came to view. It was a simple second-story house, with its shrubbery and normal living. Its very human look, the way it melted into the surrounding houses, was the best part about seeing it even with its sleeted exterior. It was another home that he wanted to understand rather than run away from. And that was what he was going to do.

He parked the Dondai and stepped out. With a cheep from the car he strode over to the front door, careful from the thin layers that crunched under him. He stared down the white-painted door like it was a wall. He gave a quick inhale.

“Okay, Universe,” he whispered. He rubbed his hands, which were red from the weather. “All you need to do is knock on the door and tell them that you’re related. It’s not like they’re going to shut down a new member of the family?” Or at least he hoped so.

With a step forward his knuckles rapped at the door, nice and loud.

Nothing.

After a moment of waiting, he decided to do it again, harder this time.

Still no answer.

“Oh jeez.” 

_It’s not like the DeMayos were rude or closed-off all the time, right_? Andy always told him that they’re the most social bunch when it came to being together, and they wouldn’t pass up a moment to help a cold child or a visitor on their doorstep. To be fair, Andy said that about every person he could list from the family tree: “Although, a few rascals don’t want visitors at their door. More like shut-ins, but they’re nice once you get them to talk and stop being turds”. But Uncle Andy’s talk became more important to him. He wondered how massive of a connection his family would be if he was given a moment to see the human side of it all. Not only his dad. Or his uncle. But Aunt Deb, Uncle Clarisse, Grandpa Barson, all those names he would hear and hone in on from little talks with his uncle when there was the opportunity for family stories. How each person had their own life, their own story being told, no matter how “ordinary” they are compared to war heroes, renegades, and massive ruling figures. Maybe they could tell him where to start or where to begin now that he had the road in his palm.

He tightened his fists.

Might as well try again.

He knocked. Each one was a soft bang, afraid that if he struck loudly the door would konk out of its hinges or set off the security alarm.

But it wasn’t enough. Now that he thought about it, the last time he went here there was no sign of presence. No car to tell him that people were currently living inside the walls.

Steven looked over at the runway. No car. Only snow and the weird spatters of grey residue that dried into the concrete.

He walked over to the windows — careful in avoiding the shrubbery — and peered inside. There were a set of blinds that covered a great deal of his view but had enough space to gaze in, where through the tops of rowed-up and shelved vases, he saw the eloquent drawers, the bookshelves and the entrance towards the kitchen, the assortment of spoons displayed behind glass paneling. The tiny plushies rested below the mantelpiece, the crocheted pillows, the antiques above the drawers with their wooden painted features. Everything rushed back to him, made him breathless at the sight. The house was here, all here.

Pressing his fingers to the windows he started to knock on the glass, hearing the dink of the panes, the thud of the panel. He knocked on it again. 

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

The table lamps slumbered and Steven saw how time kept the living room same yet different. There was a new grandfather clock, the notice of items on the table in a new location, yet with this the room kept quiet, tranquil.

They weren’t there. Either by sheer coincidence or some type of intervention, they weren’t here to talk to him just like last time, even if the last time was a fuzzy memory of housebreak. But was he obligated to stop trying? Because he wasn’t going to. Heck no.

There had to be another way to contact them. He wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to finally talk and communicate with the DeMayos, for all of it emanated opportunity, the kind that would fade away if one didn’t take charge.

But that gave him a plan. He walked back to the Dondai and scrounged through the back of the seats. There were all these bags, assortment of clothes and souvenirs and brand new tools for the road, but the one thing that he needed was the backpack hidden and squished between two boxes. He pulled it out, unzipped it, and brought out a binder of papers and a multi-colored tin.

And there he was, in the front seat, as he watched his pen write down words onto the paper, clean and formal.

_**Hello Mr. and Mrs. DeMayo,** _

_**I am your** _

He frowned to himself and balled up the paper. Steven then pulled out another.

_**Hello Mr. and Mrs. DeMayo,** _

_**This may be of short notice but I’m the son of your** _

He balled it up again. 

For all he knew, those words would’ve thrown them off in seconds of reading it. He needed to be more formal, knowledgeable, but also to the point. He continued to write them down, chucking each paper into a temporary bin via the back seats, waiting for some miracle in his words to happen with each scratch of the pen until the only thing left was something solid, able to stand up on its own.

_**Greetings Mr. and Mrs. DeMayo,** _

_**This is a personal letter addressed to both of you. You’ve not heard of me before but I’m a relative of your son, Gregory DeMayo, and I’d like to talk to you if you have the chance. I know that you’re pondering on whether I’m legitimate regarding the claim, but I’ll assure you that I’m genuine and real.** _

_**My name is Steven Cutie Pie** _

Wait, would they even take him seriously with the Cutie Pie part? 

He grabbed another paper.

**_My name is Steven DeMayo Diamond Universe and I’ll write my number down below for you to text or call me. I want to talk about meeting up since I’ve never met the DeMayo part of my family before except for a few relatives. You’ve heard of Uncle Andy, right? Call him. He’ll vouch for me if you have any doubts._ **

**_301-555-0189_ **

**_Have a great day, from Steven Universe._ **

With that, he took in his handwriting. The words were his style, they didn’t look desperate like when he was in his mania, but something more coherent and stable; which was good, very good, because he wanted to tell them that he was fine, that he was a promising young man and not some random prank call.

It took minutes for him to find the respective mailbox and slip in the paper through the slot. And when he settled down into the driver seat, staring up ahead with a fogged look in his eyes, he told himself that everything will be okay.

All he had to do now was drive.

* * *

⊠Go to Canton.

◈New goal created!

▢Try to contact family.


	9. Indiana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indiana is Indiana and the remaining portions of Ohio.
> 
> A small thing but the previous camcorder sections have been edited to fit with the new style I use for it, so thank you for your time!
> 
> And with this new chapter you also get a song composed by a dear friend of mine, credits will be at the very end.

_**It’s hard to plan out dates sometimes.** _

_**Don’t get me wrong, I’m a date-planning extraordinaire when you come down to all the ideas and where to go, but it’s a hard process to make the whole thing enjoyable for both of us. There has to be a balance between the dates and adventures, dateventures as I call them, or the whole thing feels unkempt in some way — like a dog without a shower no doubt. For me, I love the romantic stuff like kissing on benches and being close, but Connie’s always had this soft spot for the thrilling, the adrenaline-packed. So the question came up: what should we do that will pack one idea and the other idea into something amazing for each partner?** _

_**Now, I give credit to Amethyst for bringing up the idea of going to Cedar Point because that was the first thing that came up. The amusement park in Indiana has everything one can need for a dateventure: thrillers, carnival games, and everything under the sun when it comes to the typical funfair (they have fried cheese ON A STICK). We also went somewhere quiet for almost a full month back in Maineland so might as well try something heart-pumping for once — unless you count getting back-handed by a seal as heart-pumping.** _

_**So I did some digging! I researched the events at the park, the vendor food, the typical wait time for each ride, and even the cool souvenirs available at the gift shops. I even thought the weather would be a huge factor into what rides we could do, but low and behold, winter hadn’t hit Indiana yet so most of the coasters are open until December 14! And guess what? The place has fast lane passes! We can go on the same ride twenty times in a row and nobody would be able to stop us! Nobody won’t go “hey you can’t do that” because we can!** _

_**It’s crazy though. The last time I went on a rollercoaster was a few years ago? Actually, no, since childhood. I’d been to the boardwalk numerous times since then but I never touched the rollercoaster for a number of reasons. For one, I had been focused on improving and bettering my mental health and going onto a rollercoaster never stuck out to me as important? There was also the diplomacy years. And the fact that a lot of stuff happened when I was a kid. I checked out some games, the arcade machines, and The Teacups, but I never touched The Appalachian so I'm pretty excited to ride something like it now. It’s been so long since I had gotten my fair share of thrills. Better to take the opportunity to scream with someone than not, right?** _

_**So that's why we're in Cedar Point, eating some ice cream at this place called Toft’s Ice-cream Parlor and to be fair, this ice cream is reallllyy good. Angrily good. Who told Mr. Toft (I don’t know if Mr. Toft is a legit person, I’ll have to research it) to make amazing ice cream because they’ve done an amazing job, holy cow!** _

_**Not bad for a first time overall.** _

* * *

Regardless of how satisfied he was, it took a few minutes for Steven to remove the blueberry sauce off of his fingers. Even when he sucked the juice off and savored the taste, it took minutes for it to be completely removed with the scrape of his teeth. He knew that eating ice cream on a cold day was going to suck for both of them, but they might as well eat something sweet while in each other’s presences on a momentous day.

Connie sat opposite him. The outside of the parlor, with its blue tables and umbrellas, wasn’t enough to keep them from shivering, but they made do with what they had within their layered clothing and bag-toiled shoulders. They had their desserts in front of them, Connie with her brownie-churned scoops in a bowl and him with his empty waffle cone. Between them was a splayed out map of the park they had gotten from the front of the entryway; they were trying to make sense of it, Connie’s fingers pressed to the corners of the chart, where the grid sections had their respective legends and numbers.

She frowned and bit her lip. “You’d think amusement parks would have better wayfinding.”

“What do you mean? The art looks pretty.”

“That's the problem. The elongated structures, the fact a great deal of the rides block out space to label the restaurants and shops accurately. There are better ways to tell us where the heck we’re supposed to be than this.” She huffed, fingers parting through her hair. “Might as well cross-reference Boogle Maps.”

“Go easy on the poor guy,” he said and tapped a finger on the map. “The map’s trying its best.”

“You’re right. I’ll blame its creator instead.”

They smiled at each other and leaned forward to exchange a few pecks on the lips. When they sat back down on their seats, Connie brought out her phone. “Cross-referencing should be easy enough, just gotta make sure to have it out if we get lost since the place is huge.”

“I can’t believe you were able to get another day off.” Steven smiled and crunched the top of the waffle cone. It still tasted like blueberry. “Thought you’d go back to studying your heart out.”

“You know I’m okay with dates, Steven.” Connie scoffed. Her hair was not up today; smarter for her to let it down rather than have goosebumps all the time, even if she donned a thick jacket and a spare woolen scarf. “I’m not missing an opportunity for one, especially if it’s with you.”

“Even if it cuts into study time?”

A stern nod. “It’s not ‘cutting’, but ‘making time for you.’”

“Aww, I love you!”

“I love you too.”

She then loosened up and pointed towards an upper portion of the map. “Since we have the fast lane passes we should be able to do some sectioning.”

“Like, we focus on one section of the park for a few hours or?”

“Basically, but we have to limit ourselves. We got here early, sure, we have enough time, but that doesn’t mean we should focus ourselves on rides we’re not interested in. We'll have to start crossing off the boring ones and circling the interesting ones.”

He pressed a few fingers onto the rides he’d known the most from the websites. “Definitely circle Steel Vengeance and Top Thrill Dragster. Articles say they’re very intense.”

“You sure, Universe?” She smirked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Not scared of all that G force?”

“We’ve done better, Mrs. Maheswaran,” he said in a posh accent, making her snort.

Connie sat upright again and brushed at her collar like a fine gentleman at a party. “Ah yes, Mr. Universe, no doubt. We wouldn’t want to be seen as plebians on the kiddie rides now, would we?”

“Mmm, no sirree.”

“Mmmm,” she mmm’ed at him.

“Mmm,” he mmm’ed at her back.

The two burst into giggles but quickly cut themselves off. They didn’t want to disturb the other families around them, even if it was fun to shake all the nervous energy out. For all Steven knew, this was a great opportunity to see Connie again, to allow himself to relax and hold onto the coaster bars like there’s no tomorrow.

“So we’ll definitely take all the intense rides,” she said.

“Mhm!”

“But keep your credits intact, there’s a lot of gift shops here.”

He chuckled. “Connie, it’s not like I’m gonna buy all the souvenirs.”

She stared at him.

A sigh. “Okay, fine. I’ll only get two souvenirs.”

“I know your dad is flexible with the money but we’re going to carry a lot of bags if you purchase too much.”

He groaned even more. “I know.”

“But you know what’ll make a better souvenir?” she asked him.

“A t-shirt?”

“No.” She leaned forward and tapped at the camera cord around his neck. “Much better than a t-shirt.”

* * *

**[RECORDING 12/06/20XX 00.00.01]**

**There’s restless chatter from the blotted screen. After a few seconds, light slips into view. The frame blurs numerous times as it goes back and forth like it is swinging from an unknown source. It stops and allows everything to focus.**

**In the frame are the backs of numerous people, donning different colored shirts and jackets, scarves around their necks, with the metal railings that divides them into orderly sections. After a moment of clarity, the frame blurs once again until it hones in on Steven’s face, who’s smiling all the way.**

**“Okay, we’re here in the fast pass lane for Magnum XL-200.”**

**He bites his lip. The frame changes to another piece of landscape, the peak of the red-lined rollercoaster looms high above, a short glimpse of a coaster car diving down with the screams of people accompanying it.**

**“We researched it a bit more, and apparently the whole thing could bruise you. Not too bruised to the point of having to lick ourselves clean but enough to make someone a bit wobbly in the end.”**

**He grins.**

**“I think we’ll be good though since bandaids or rest can’t compare to the power of healing magic.”**

**He chuckles to himself. The frame goes back to the faces and the antsy bodies in the line.**

**“But yeah, here’s the deal: I have no clue how scary this is going to be. It’s been so long since I’d ridden a rollercoaster, and I would describe it as intense I guess. It all comes down to the fun of screaming, right? I researched so many articles on what rides would be the scariest and apparently most of the rollercoasters have that adrenaline junkie vibe based on where you sit. Except for the kid stuff, but hey the kiddie rides might have something cool to give us if we have more time.”**

**He looks upward, away from the frame. The background begins to shift more with new people shuffling into the frame.**

**“Oh wow, we’re up. Fast passes are legit.”**

**Steven gives a smile.**

**“Wish me luck! I don’t want to have you out in the open. You’re still brand new and I might cry if you break, okay? This coaster’s going to have me in tears when I come back either way, so...”**

**He waves.**

**“Later!”**

**[RECORDING PAUSED]**

**[RECORDING 12/06/20XX 00.05.11]**

**Steven’s face returns, and, ultimately, isn’t in tears, his stoic expression making its way to a laugh.**

**“Wow, okay, haha...yeah. That sucked.”**

**Connie’s voice pops up from out of frame.**

**“My thighs aren’t even that bruised. This is false advertising.”**

**Steven nods violently.**

**“I know right? The screaming was cool but my thighs are bruise-free. The front area was supposed to be the best area too! No battle scars for the apartment!”**

**“Are we comparing amusement parks to war now?”**

**“I guess so, I’m just really disappointed!”**

**“But I think this is a definite sign that G force can’t hold back on us. We’re too resilient, Biscuit. We have stronger thresholds.”**

**He raises his voice, the lens shaking for a second.**

**“Oh! Oh! Are we rollercoaster pros now? Are we gonna have badges and everything?”**

**The frame changes to Connie walking. She’s checking her phone and dons the same disappointment on her features. The distance from the camera and her starts to shorten, as if Steven is walking towards her.**

**“I don’t think we can call ourselves rollercoaster pros yet. We need to ride the others before we could do that, test the mettle of what we have, and** **_then_ ** **we can call ourselves rollercoaster professionals.”**

**“You’re so right.”**

**His voice is boisterous, like a king announcing his own reign.**

**“Where to, Connster? What beast shall we conquer next?”**

**She snorts and motions him to a direction far off to her left.**

**“The next eldritch being slumbers far yonder. The Iron Dragon has thus terrorized the land and tis our duty to slay it before numbered peasants shall weep on mass graves.”**

**The frame starts to wobble more. Steven’s voice rises up amidst the clicking and clacking of the audio.**

**“Then let’s slay the dragon, come on!”**

**Their laughter is heard through the unfocused visuals.**

**[ENDED 12/06/20XX 00.9.24]**

**[LOG 000021 ENCAPSULATED]**

* * *

▢Be a rollercoaster pro. 

Steven and Connie had hours to ride all the rides. They had a list of every single one they wanted to encounter. From the supposedly scary to the outright terrifying, and with each attraction they passed, Steven would check it down from the list he made in his management app. Each box was a way for them to have fun on their mission to conquer each coaster. When the two first walked through the park doors, twelve hours were on the clock — to have fun, eat some cotton candy, and eat fried cheese from the vendors before the sun went down. And both of them saw it as a challenge.

The park was their sandbox. With the clean atmosphere, the laughter of families who passed by, the pop music flowing through the breeze, the two of them took their time while hand-in-hand. They did the easier rides first, the ones that people told from reviews would buckle their knees if one wasn’t used to the concept of a rollercoaster in the first place, and for Steven and Connie, they considered themselves thrill-seekers — professionals when it came to the feeling to the drop of one’s stomach. They tried them and, in the aftermath, they jotted stuff down and laughed over their disappointment.

⊠Ride Blue Streak. 

⊠Ride Corkscrew. 

Nothing could stop them. Not even the powerful Gs of an amusement ride that boasted its ability to make tiny children cry like the Mantis or could scare the pants off of someone who didn’t know any better with the small stature of the Wicked Twister. 

⊠Ride Mantis. 

⊠Ride Wicked Twister. 

Within hours they boasted themselves as the professionals they set themselves out to be. 

At the dual-tracked rollercoaster the two separated from each other in the line and rode in the two available coaster cars. They met the other on one of the adjacent tracks at the summit, high-fiving on the passings — only taking heed of the ‘no outside car contact’ sign when the ride finished.

⊠Ride Gemini. 

Raptor, the steel inverted coaster, was more boring than it looked. The only thing that got them to stumble and fall flat on their faces afterward was the sheer regret over eating burgers before jumping onto the thing in the first place. And the poor trash can that had to endure this chaos had their condolences when they stumbled off elsewhere to the remainder of the park for a drink. To wash off the foul taste in their mouths, no doubt.

⊠Ride Raptor. 

It was the buzz of the atmosphere that left them breathless. Steven had seen many wonders before — numerous accounts of them being natural or ancient in some way, shape, or form — but the ability to just be with others, to yell out the same yells as them, was something that made him whir with euphoria. Well, a tiny buzz. The rides they had gone to, which were small compared to the goliaths the park had raised themselves to be, particularly with the Steel Vengeance, made them determined to go down the list, from mediocre to the terrifying. It had to give them the buzz if they pushed for more incessant turns and wobbles of the knees.

“How many rides do we have left?” Steven asked.

Both of them were situated on a seated slab with food trays beside them, the smell of burgers and fries accompanied with chocolate-covered bananas in their hands. The rushed screams from the rollercoaster nearby, the Steel Vengeance, passed them without a second notice. It left him rigid, goosebumps starting to ride down his arms. The coaster by itself was huge in its steel latticing, and towered over the rest of the western-themed section of the park like a menace, a boogeyman.

“We have five coasters left.” Connie looked at her phone, the map abandoned somewhere in her dress pocket. She plopped a fry into her mouth. “The Maverick’s next, but I’m sure that we’re going to get through it and be disappointed.”

“Probably.” 

That did make something press against him. He had no clue if it was the nerves or the nausea.

“Berry, do you feel happy when you ride the coasters?”

Connie looked at him. “Where’d this come from?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’m just curious.”

“Well, from all I know, I’m having fun with you.” His cheeks flared. He loved the feeling of her hand against his — the heat pushing back the cold. “And being dumb together is my type of happiness.”

“But you aren’t dumb.”

“I mean, just...teenager dumb.” Connie nestled herself into his shoulder, hair brushed against the back of his neck. “It’s nice to eat fried cheese without the feeling that we’re going to abandon it for something stressful. Nothing’s going to happen to us if we do something that isn’t too stupid.” She was close, the waft of lavender keeping him tethered. “And I like that.”

And he did too. He kept his hold on her, fingers parting through her frizzled locks. The sun had peaked a few hours ago and had started its descent into the horizon. They only had a few hours left before night struck, which meant it was beach time, even if the water was going to bite their toes off.

“The beach’s gonna close soon.”

“Right. Let’s go, Biscuit.”

* * *

Connie and Steven considered the timing when planning their day. Of course, the whole thing was an island. If anyone was going to tell them to walk the entirety and take in all the rides before the place closed then it would be an intense sprint to each portion of the area before they jumped back into the Dondai. And to be fair, Steven didn’t like the idea of going fast with something like this. It was a date, sure, but he didn’t see a good reason to tire themselves out in such a way. With the acknowledged fast lane passes, they had enough time to see each attraction they were interested in, and that left a great deal of time to be filled with carnival games and the watching of spectacles at different platforms out and about. 

Both of them spent a few hours at the different booths. As they passed each one, Connie mused on the prices and the respective prizes, while Steven was happy to tote around a bag full of the cuddly plushies wherever they went. It was normal for them to stop and talk with the people who ran the games; from teenagers to the middle-aged, it was charming to have a nice laugh when their minds weren’t worked up over the next “victim” to their rollercoaster shenanigans.

It was at the pull-up bar game where Steven found himself hung from the iron fixture, holding on as the booth man’s timer ticked down nearby. Connie kept an eye on him with each second that passed — not like she was worried, more so waiting for his inevitable victory when it’s all over. He could say it was cheating to keep himself still with just the minimal of his strength, but the man behind the game, with his salt and pepper beard, the jovial smile amongst the fatigue, kept the conversation and didn’t mind whatever tricks he had in his sleeves since “carnie games are all about tricks, you feel me?” when it came to the bigger picture of the whole thing. It still didn’t stop the guilt though, and led to him pushing the large monkey into the employee’s arms afterward.

“Are you serious?” The man looked at him, starry-eyed. “I can have your monkey?”

“Take it as a gift for helping us out. We have a lot anyways.” They had a huge bag, which was about to spill if he added one more to it.

The man giggled and gave the animal a squeeze. “I better hide it under the stall. Don’t want my manager to be a dick about it when she comes around. You know managers.”

Connie smiled at that. “You try to call them out and next thing you know you’re on their hit list.”

“That shit kills me every time. She gets it.” On closer inspection, his uniform looked more ruffled, like the man had been stuck in the place for a long time, doing the same pull-up bar counter for years or even decades. “It’s nice to meet people though. It’s hard to get close to others in this type of job unless you hit them up with numbers.”

Steven took out his hand. “Your name?”

“Benny.”

With that introduction came more discussions, laughter, until the three of them found themselves at a set of tables away from the hustle of the afternoon crowds, where one of Benny’s fellow coworkers waved at them to take a seat. It surprised Steven to make the transition quickly. In a few minutes they learned that the name of Benny’s companion was Daniel, and that both of them were, in simple terms, attraction junkies. No matter the ride they’d been on in the amusement park, they already had their opinions, their rankings of their favorites, which rides to avoid, which ones to ride more. And with that came exchanges, recommendations of Indiana restaurants; everything started to fly by without a care. The sun was now drowsy orange on the horizon. There was a sweetness to drinking milkshakes together at a table, laughter-filled between all in their relaxed outing, Benny on a tangent that Steven listened to intently.

“It all comes down to how fluid the ride is.” Benny snapped his finger and stuck out his tongue, Steven noticing the prominent studs pierced to it. “And whether they could knock my breath away and leave me shaking. Maverick is my go-to.”

“Wait, so you guys have a rating system for this?” he asked. “It’s not just ‘this feels like a nine’?”

Daniel nodded. “Of course. We always ride together and rate the coasters, specially the intense ones.”

Benny counted his fingers. “Fluidity. Intensity. Color scheme. Its minimal finishing time. It depends on each coaster since they’re all different, but they don’t call Cedar Point the capital of amusement for nothing. They have the best of the best, and no one leaves the place disappointed!”

Connie gave a wry smile. “Yeaahh, I don’t know about that. Our thoughts currently are below the expectation line.”

The two workers nodded, Benny being the one to speak. “Makes sense. If it ain’t a thriller —” He did a slicing motion. “— then no dice.”

“Actually, we rated this for most of the coasters,” she said. 

Daniel choked on his sandwich. 

“Wait, even Millenium Force?!”

Steven coughed. “It was...yeah.”

A holler from the food vendor made the group stop. Connie stood up from the table, putting a hand on Steven. “Gonna get the food. Hold down the fort for me.”

“Okay. Love you."

A small kiss.

"Love you too."

When she left, the countenances the coworkers harbored were now different: they were full of curiosity and awe, like they had observed a new species in its natural habitat, waiting to see what the animals could do.

Daniel was the first to break the silence. “You must be joshing me, Steven.”

“I’m not.” He crossed an X above his chest. “Honest.”

“So you don’t feel too excited?” Daniel asked more. It sounded more of an interrogation than anything. “Like do you feel the pump of your blood? Or are you just a God in disguise?”

“I feel the adrenaline a little, not enough to make...me satisfied or too interested, I guess.”

“But that’s concerning,” Benny leaned forward a bit more, eyebrow raised at him. “Especially for the gut-pumping stuff.”

“But it’s normal though.” Steven piped up. He could feel the pressure again, crawling up his gut, nestling somewhere like an unbearable weight. “It just means we’ve grown up from the typical stuff. We’re all for the thrill, it’s just that we don’t get pumped about it.”

“I don’t know if that’s normal, Steven.” Daniel grimaced and fiddled with his fry bag. “It sounds very weird for one to not have themselves be adrenaline-jogged.

“Adrenaline-jogged isn’t a word, sweetie,” Ben said.

“But I like the word.” Dan crossed his arms. “The point is, is that it’s not normal for someone to be bored with a rollercoaster of those intensities. I mean, I know of a few people who said the same thing but they always had exceptions in some way. Stuff such as hyper or hybrids have the intentions of making you not bored — and with those heights and twists — I’m concerned of how you could be knocked out of lack of stimulus than the thrill.”

Steven stared at them. They were legitimate people, he knew legitimacy if he had the time to see it, but something about this hurt. He didn’t know why it hurt. The words were on his tongue. “So, it’s a normal human thing to be thrilled rather than bored.”

Benny rubbed his neck. “Basically.”

“Huh.”

He could feel a weight upon his gut, formed and visceral. He had no clue what to do with it or how to get rid of its presence, but he could feel the sweat forming on his hairline. When Connie came back with a tray of food, it was as if she saved him from the thoughts, the implications.

* * *

Steven tried not to think much of it when the hours went by. He tried. He really did try.

The idea of being a “rollercoaster professional” prior was what got him into this mood to take on the entire park with Connie. The potential of being compared to a knight or a warrior from coming out unscathed left him euphoric, bubbly, but now, as the list of rides started to notch down with each one they committed to, a terror started to creep upon him.

Steven had ridden rollercoasters before. He knew what the rush felt like, to envelop yourself into the adrenaline from being boosted and driven to high speed at the boardwalk. And here he was, underwhelmed, taking in the views rather than the extent of air and the twists and turns. There was guilt in the slivers of boredom, how it wasn’t normal to feel like this. Somehow, he had a hunch on why he felt this way. Somewhere he blamed himself and his life and how it won’t leave him alone. But he had no proof to back up the assumptions, the self-accusations, and all he could do was continue and hope that the next ride could prove him wrong, that he only needed the correct ride.

⊠Ride Top Thrill Dragster. 

⊠Ride Valravn. 

⊠Ride Gatekeeper. 

The treks between the rides reminded him of something menacing, too terrifying to describe. Because when he yelled and hollered with the rest when it came to the dips and curves — Connie didn’t hesitate to do the same — there was a dissonance. He yelled because others yelled. If he yelled over the ride itself, then that would be a different story; he wouldn’t say a word. His expectations were dashed with each ride they conquered.

Hope plagued him with each new ride they encountered for they were advertised as thrillers, something that one was supposed to be exhilarated at but here he was, despair embedded in his chest with each new installment they lingered at. 

Connie still joked and jabbed about how they were going to become professional in no time, but Steven wondered if Connie was thinking the same thing; that whatever was happening, it wasn’t fun for the sake of being pumped with tension and adrenaline, it was all of the people, the solidarity at being in unison. Or was it him? Was he the odd one out? He can’t be. He couldn’t. He had a weird threshold, that was all. He was just like all the others. Nothing bad was going to happen to him. Hence his enthusiasm — and growing hope — for the last ride on their list: Steel Vengeance.

Steel Vengeance was told to be the most terrifying of the rides. Steven had seen videos of it, of reviews from people who had gone onto its steep dive and found themselves buckled and throttled in the aftermath. They called it the acme, the record-breaker of speed and sound. It made sense from how massive it was in size compared to the others, and how, in the midst of the night, the tracks bloomed to eery orange as if a final warning to turn back around, the screams from the notable ninety-degree drop making passersby go stiff. And, while they made their way through the fast pass lane, Steven and Connie found themselves in a crowded set of rows; the other not being any better, denizens packed like sardines under the drowned lighting. 

Steven compared each line and identified the small fenced-off areas, spotted the bits and pieces of phone batteries, plastic casing, and shell-shocked screen protectors. The warnings were all there. He relished in it. It meant that this one had to be it, that it would scare the pants off him if he just got on.

He didn’t know why he needed this reassurance so much. 

Was there a thrill in it? 

No. He wanted the reassurance that he could feel that guttural ache in his chest, the yells from the rush. That he could feel the same thing like everybody else. He _needed_ to do this ride.

“Steven?”

“Hm?”

“You look out of it. What’s up?”

“Oh.” His fingers were clammy, sweaty in the niches of his palm. “Just nervous. We’re almost full professionals in this whole ‘survive the rollercoasters with a bored look’ thing, but what if this ride’s the one to break that streak?”

“Well, it would be a bummer but it wouldn’t be the end of the world.” Connie winked and nudged at his shoulder. “It just means that most of the rollercoasters didn’t petrify us to anxiety or a specific level of adrenaline. I think we’d call ourselves adrenaline junkies more than anything...even if the definition doesn’t fit to a T.”

He laughed. It was too high, scratched up. “Yeah, we’ll be adrenaline junkies.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. His hand had gotten itchy, the scratching a relief alongside his controlled breathing. “Nervous.”

“You could sit this one out. There’s nothing wrong with leaving if you’re not alright.”

If only that were simple. “Trust me. I just need to do a few breathing exercises and all this is gonna be a piece of cake.”

She looked hesitant. However, after a while, she started to smile. “Okay. Keep your camera in the bag.”

“Right, right.” Steven fumbled with the camera on his neck when the line shortened. 

After they placed their equipment in a safe space, the attendants beckoned them over to the cars on the platform. Steven fitted himself into the minecart-looking car by Connie’s side. The yellow lighting from the tracks wasn’t comforting, but maybe that was the point? He gripped the handlebars beside him, letting the material press and press into his palms. This must be the fear, the spike of tension. This had to be the streak breaker. He’ll feel the same fear as the rest, the same tension even the enthusiasts felt.

At the brought down restraints and the announcement from one of the workers, he started to smile more. His heart fluttered in his chest.

“Last ride,” he said.

Connie laughed. “Professional coaster buds?”

He put on a smile. “Professional coasters buds.”

Steven tried to laugh back but all he could think about was the pit in his stomach as the ride started. It had to be the start of the climb where his worries started to pull themselves to something tranquil. 

The whir of the belt below them — _click, click, click, clack, click_ — left him in a state of expectation. He peeked to the side and found themselves climbing overhead. The anticipatory whoops from the back made him shuffle, breath caught in his throat. The landscape, the lit-up park, was a growing galaxy of mish-mash lights and towers. He could see the blips of red and blue, sprays of illuminated cones from the grounded spotlights. He eyed the people below, how they all looked like ants who bustled along without noticing him. There was the moon glimmering on the lake reflection, the peace of the dreamy. The quiet of the world.

Then he felt the kick and the stop.

They were at the summit. He could see everything from up here, enough to make him think he could fly at such a height.

So when they plummeted down the ninety-degree drop, Steven could only focus on the whoops and hollers of the people behind him. The air was thunderous. It pounded onto them like they were in the eye of a tornado, racketed their ears and drummed their heads with force until the next hill brought him to a buzz. It felt turbulent, reminiscent of the swoop of one’s wings. He focused. His body kept itself relaxed against the restraints. The roar of the winds were godlike, an unseen leviathan that wrenched them through the sky like a catapult.

His breath kept level. Every part of him remained resilient. Each hillock left him tense, body throttled by the jolts, the pressure against his upper body. He was subrmerged at the black intersecting corners, brought back to the light, then back into the dark again. There were the tips, the inversions, the feeling of falling, the whip of the wind, yet here he was. Suspended. Everything had that pump, that jostle to his body; there was a humanity to being pulled and prodded, left vulnerable even when he took his world like it was some form of spectacle, a movie — with him as the spectator.

But then it was all over, with him looking ahead amidst the cheers and halted rush.

The rest behind him were laughing their butts off as they grabbed their belongings and cheered their excitement. Connie next to him nudged him back to reality. And without another thought, Steven grabbed the bags, held Connie’s hand, and walked out on the exit path.

She was still talking. She insulted the ride, talked of how mundane it was even with the advertising and each one left his stomach hollow, aching.

⊠Ride Steel Vengeance.

He hated the unbroken streak.

“Connie.”

“What’s up?”

“Can we go home?”

Her smile melted away. “Why? We have a few hours left.”

“I...I’ll be honest. I don’t want to be here.”

Connie gazed at him. The shadows danced on the contours of her face as she hooked her hand onto his, pulling him elsewhere. “Let’s go.”

He was glad to be rid of the ride’s sight.

⊠Be a rollercoaster pro. 

* * *

He tried his best to focus on the quiet streets as they went back to Canton. It should’ve been easy to take heed of the road; the shadowy outlines of the farms, how the car brought them farther away from the park — whose lights were now pinpricks on his rearview window. Yet all he could think about was the rides, the empty drop. He felt witless, a coward. An absolute coward. What was he a coward about? About _rollercoasters_? Was he even listening to himself at this point? It felt bizarre, pathetic, and he didn’t know how long it would take to decipher why there was an amalgam of thoughts swarming in his head — about why the pinnacle left him tired and calm, disappointed and upset. Connie seemed curious too, but she only stared at him from the shotgun seat, seeming to wait for him, like she expected him to explain.

The waters they drove past built to lines of trees and agriculture, alcoves of verdant fields now wretched dark branches and silhouetted expanse of flatland. They were stiff, lonely to watch without the moon above them to light the way.

"Are we going to talk?" she asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Steven, you were upset, and you know it."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine."

"It is. I just didn't want to go on the coasters anymore, we're tired."

"Steven, you're upset!"

"I'm not upset!"

"And lying to me about it is going to make it better?"

Both of their voices died down, each one looking at the other in the disquiet, the muted space. They were stressed. It wasn't right to start raising their voices at one another, and they both knew that.

"I'm sorry." She rubbed at her forehead, flinching at how the road jostled under them for a second. "I shouldn't have done that."

“I’m sorry too.” Steven gripped the wheel more. He tried to focus on the road, anything else to avoid the stress inside of him. "You were just trying to help me."

"Right." Connie exhaled through her nose. "I guess the adrenaline got to us after all."

A nervous chuckle. "Yeah, it must've."

The two eased into their little giggles. With the tension it felt nice to laugh at something, even if it was at themselves.

"I just...feel weird, y'know?" He told her. "The whole day was amazing but…"

"Did something happen on the coaster? Was it stress, anxiety, another attack?"

“A lot of stuff happened on the rollercoaster that wasn't that." He brushed sweat off his forehead. "Felt like it though, but not really. I don’t know."

“Well, we now have time to figure it out.” Her response was soft. It had the same care, the familiar softness that made him relax. "We're in this together. You're allowed to think about it."

"Even when it's midnight?"

"Even when it's midnight. We broke curfew before, not like anybody's going to stop us."

He gave her a wry smile. “Can we park somewhere quiet?”

“Of course.”

He found a lone expanse of trees off the main road. They parked their car in the shade, in the hidden boundaries of nature, but it was hard for him to say anything now even when the moonlight came back again — leaving them in the dim and still. The attentiveness, however, kept him sane. Connie, with all of her qualities, knew how to help him, and he swore that someday he'll have to do the same thing as well.

“Start small,” she advised. “You okay with me holding your hand?”

After a quick nod, the warmth came back to him. There was reassurance in the fact that he won’t be alone or deprived of contact. “Thank you. I needed this today.”

“What’s on your mind, Biscuit?” Her words were like a cradle, careful in the way it was said. 

He tried to keep himself focused on the tone, on her. His tongue felt like it was jammed with cotton, twisted and numb.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard, Berry.”

“What hit hard?”

“The rollercoasters.” It felt stupid to hear it. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m even blabbering about.”

“No, no, keep going.” She kept her grip.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He gritted his teeth. There were things that sounded ridiculous in theory, that he worried others — especially humans — wouldn’t understand, but Connie wasn’t like any other human. She knew him throughout all those moments, in all the times he sobbed and cried gibberish. She wasn’t going to judge him, she wasn’t.

“When we were on the rides, did you feel excited over the ride itself?”

It was hard to discern her features in the dark, but he could tell she had pressed her lips. “To be honest...no. Not really.”

“I felt the same thing.” 

His free hand went through his hair.

He let out a congested groan. 

“I tried so badly to think that it was all in my head. That we were having fun just like everybody else but…” He tightened on her. “Benny and Daniel told me that it was normal to feel adrenaline and thrill, and our streak showed that something’s wrong. I don’t know if it’s wrong, all I know is that it’s wrong.”

His voice cracked.

“And I thought too much about it. We went on missions that were more intense. I almost died for Pete’s sake, and we went through so much where we fell from the sky and hovered miles off the ground like it was no big deal. And the idea that all of that could’ve removed the feeling of being happy or satisfied with the rides...”

His fingers pinched his nose and rubbed at his eyes.

“I went to restaurants, to nightclubs, to bars, to concerts, and after months of traveling, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Connie. I don’t know if it’s the past or if it’s me or if I’m worrying over nothing but that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He gritted his teeth, a pained gasp. “How am I supposed to be human if it feels like I’m losing control?”

“But, Steven.” Her voice was a hush, bringing his voice down to the silence. “You _are_ human.”

“Then how would you know?” There was so much heat, the pressure in his chest about to collapse on himself. “We’re in the same boat. The same situation.”

“And even with that, what do you see in me?”

Steven hesitated. It’s hard to discern her, which was a good thing.

“I see a human.”

“You see a human.” She agreed. “But people around me, especially my classmates, see more than that.”

Silence.

“What do you mean?”

He felt her hand against his. Warm and grounded. Pressure turned his arm face-up and dragged onto his palm with light strokes, small, reassuring to the touch.

“Steven, we have no idea, out of all of the research humanity has done, on what really is the definition of being human. I’m serious.”

The pressure rode down his arm, down the mapping of his arteries. How funny it was to think that the blood inside of him wasn’t the only supposed life source that kept him alive, that his human parts depended on the gem parts too to keep him breathing, to keep him intact.

“But...being human is feeling the human experience...and you do just that,” he said.

“But that’s the problem, Steven.” She sighed. “What even is the human experience?

“For me, it’s all about the ability to persevere, to have self-awareness and paradigms. But to others, we have no real clue how to describe it, what the generalized experience is.” Her fingertips trailed down, making him shudder at the touch. “What’s your definition, Biscuit?”

“I…don’t know.”

“We have all night. Tell me.”

The question strung itself between them. It was an inquiry he never thought about before until now, and yet it clicked to him, left him to fuddle around in the dark, allowing her to ease him into the hushed atmosphere.

“It means to act and thrive. To be happy with getting better after your battles and enjoying what Earth has to offer.” His teeth dug lightly into his tongue. “To live. To die. To love people, to birth new beginnings.”

“Then you’re human. You feel all of that.”

If he thought about it now — in the quiet of the car, the rustle of their bodies, the breath of the other — how human was it to be human? The Crystal Gems weren’t perfect. In each snapshot of his life he harbored anger, resentment, yet awe and respect for who they had become. They tried to be alien but all they did became more flawed, nuanced. They lived, died, loved, and gave birth to new beginnings. Human. They were human as much as a human being. Yet...

“It doesn’t feel like I’m human. Or all human.”

“Is it because of your gem?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Then what’s missing, Biscuit?”

His gaze fell on her, and for one second, he felt the disappointment in not being all-knowing. Not the anger and spite towards the lack of control, the lack of knowledge, like before. Just disappointment.

“I have no clue.”

“Well.” She brushed her thumb against his knuckles. “You’ll always have me.”

“Thank you. But for now, I’d like some quiet to myself.” He watched her face, seeing how the shadows lingered and contoured the concern on her features. “I need to think about what all of this means. Maybe out in the trees.”

She grimaced. "Are you sure? You know I could be there for you if—"

"I want some time to myself." He saw how her expression waned, stern even when her eyes didn't seem to connect. "It won't be long. I just want to get all my thoughts in order before we go home."

She kept stiff.

"Please," he said.

After a few seconds, Connie nodded. “Okay.” 

Her hand lingered on his and gave a light squeeze, as if they were about to separate for a long time. 

“If you need me, I’ll be in the Dondai.”

He squeezed her back. 

“Alright.”

With the push of the car door, Steven wandered out.

Back when he had to get away from Beach City, the forest would be the place he would go to reconnect. There was no expectation to be questioned or interrogated, only the ability to listen to the evergreen symphony, to gaze up at the moon between the cracks in the canopies until he had enough energy to drive himself back to the beach house. If he didn’t think too much of it he would find nature lovely rather than scary or anxiety-ridden, and with some help from his therapist, he found himself seeing the place as a sanctuary rather than a training ground.

And he needed that sanctuary more than ever.

The guitar in his hands was a new weight when he navigated himself in the dark. He heard the incessant crunch of branches, of crickets far-off his makeshift path. He grunted and huffed from each gnarled root and tree trunk, and all of this, he knew, was under the gaze of the forest’s nightly crew. From the curious rabbit to the nocturnal owl, there was a passive watch that surrounded him, and he loved the feeling even when it pervaded him. It wasn’t human judgment or the disappointment of his family or the pressures of society. What he had was the natural world being his new-founded audience. They wouldn’t judge him if he cried, yelled, and threw tantrums. They wouldn’t say a word and make him feel out of place.

For tonight, he was glad for an audience.

His fingers pressed on the sleek neck of his guitar, eyes half-lidded, the rustle and chitter of the night relaxing him, easing him off the pressure.

He started to tune the pegs.

The cool breeze caressed his face. It felt weird to be in such a quiet place, away from the clamor of the machines and the people, where his guitar was strummed into a soft rhythm. [ The tune was loose and fitting, and he took comfort in the song’s lullaby. ](https://soundcloud.com/flashmumriken/satisfied-concept-track)

_“I’ve done nothing but think.”_

Steady strum.

_“I’ve done nothing but try.”_

The chirp of the night, the solitude’s embrace.

_“And even with the answers from the people, of the world, I still don’t feel…”_

His fingers danced on the strings.

_“Satisfied.”_

Something wet brushed down his cheeks. He kept going, allowing the tune to carry him.

_“I can remember who I was.”_

He closed his eyes.

_“Then figure out who I am.”_

His strumming continued.

_“But with all these confusions, definitions…”_

A twinge of the heart.

_“I’m left with this loaded question.”_

The words slipped out, whispers against the backdrop.

_“Who am I to define…”_

_“Being…”_

_“Being human?”_

He took a shaky breath.

_“Who am I to define…”_

_“Being…”_

_“Being human?”_

He stayed there, breaths weighed, heavy against his chest. It would take time for him to think about everything, but the moment to himself was enough to calm him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Satisfied" was written and composed by flashmumriken on Tumblr!
> 
> If you want to have a more clear link to their stuff [then here!](https://soundcloud.com/flashmumriken)
> 
> @BellsnWhistles also made art for Indiana that you can find [here!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/715055273102016542/image0.png)


	10. Mackinac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mackinac is Michigan.

It’s hard to peg something fluid like identity. Why it formed the way we are, how it could affect people in ways one couldn’t even describe, and the basic gist of how confusing all of it is even with its premise. Steven had spent a great deal of his time thinking about it, had laid around at the dead of night to the question of ‘why’ as he regarded the idea. It wasn’t something to scoff at, but more so a revelation that left him callous towards himself, trying to think about why he’s upset and why certain words felt like knives against the apex of his chest.

It could be because there were so many factors. It was excessive, to the point that trying to consider how far things got influenced from childhood — to trauma, to upbringing, to his genetics — was a mountain in it of itself, one he could only talk about head-on within his therapy appointments. Dr. Greene, the first time he met her, was enthusiastic about helping. She was patient with him, kept every inquiry open-ended, and not once in any of the sessions did she look like he was wasting her time even when the doubts of her legitimacy kicked him. But the beginning was a harsh road. There was silence, stuttering, the notice of discarded snot-covered tissues. Steven would pinken, feel his body submerge in anxiety, and there were days where he felt like garbage when he exited the building, shaky-minded at the prospect of ever coming back.

Yet, he never stopped. Session by session there was slow ease between the sobs and the thoughts; the rose-colored skin would occur less, more so flicker like a lightbulb than leave him breathless and mortified. The crying became easier, the words in his mind loose to the tongue. He would sit down and open himself up. “I deserve this”, “I don’t want to feel this way”, “Why can’t things be easier?”; each question seeped through like an overcome kidney stone, and the exercises, the methodologies, started to take route, albeit shakily.

In the mirror he would try his best to say stuff to himself that he wanted others to say back to him, too. When his support system formed and committed prior to his sessions, he felt like he didn’t need them or deserve them. But in his moments of weakness, his lips would ghost over words in the dark. His eyes spoke of truths ~~/lies~~ that he built himself as an exercise, each one vital, each one needed.

_No, it wasn’t right for me, Steven Universe, to feel obligated by my friends and family to negotiate over problems that didn’t even need to involve me._

_I am not obligated to work for the basis of love and appreciation I should have had ever since I was a child._

_I shouldn’t have (_ ~~_I should’ve_ ~~ _~~,~~ no, I shouldn’t’ve) gone through the amount of neglect and turmoil just to make others happy. _

_I am a priority._

Still...why is it so hard to see it as such?

He took time out of their sessions to tackle the roadblocks. Each problem was connected in some way. Either through gem problems, his origins, his family dynamic, something, laid in the core of each one, led him to feel a multitude of emotions that no one should ever have to feel as a developing adult. So here he was, on her couch, going through the motions, the reflections of the heart and mind. Even when he started to do online versions, there was this internal promise to voice anything of concern. It didn’t matter if it was a panic moment at a hike or an argument with the waiter; he wanted someone to vent to about it that wasn’t just his travel log or a close friend, someone to understand why he was upset and take the time to stitch the wounds with him. After Cedar Point, he needed a guide more than ever.

“Steel Vengeance is an intense rollercoaster,” she remarked through the screen.

“Yeah, it is.” He rubbed his arm. His feet scuffed the floor while he kept put in his chair. 

“And with what you’ve discussed earlier, Steven, prior to the event, there was a menagerie of emotions you’ve had to deal with?”

“Yeah. I felt weird.” He tried to keep his focus, though it was difficult due to a lack of coffee. “I don’t know, just the word hits it. It felt horrible to be so out of it, so distraught when I should’ve been in control.”

“It is natural to feel distraught over your body’s adaptations to heavy amounts of stress.”

“But this whole thing feels so alien. It feels like I’m not…”

The question was still on his mind, bold and heavy.

“It feels stupid to think about it, but how am I supposed to feel human now that I know about this?”

Dr. Greene leaned forward.

“Steven, humanity is a complex idea, and it is normal for people to struggle with it.” The internet was hard with the current setup, but Steven kept his eye on the screen, the woman on the other end still able to be heard even with the cut-offs and the fizzles in audio. “And to need support in the process, too.”

“I don’t know. This whole thing has been frustrating to navigate.”

“And that’s okay.”

He knew that. He should’ve known this without shame by now, but a few years isn’t enough sometimes to solidify it into memory.

“When you focus on the concept of ‘being human’, what do you visualize?” she asked.

It was hard to run off to some type of answer without thinking of what to do, or what he’s supposed to even ponder about, yet the words came quickly.

“Being with humans.”

The other end was silent. Steven could see Dr. Greene watch him from the end of her monitor, eyes warm and attentive on him. She kept quiet when he needed her to listen, the best part out of all of the sessions he’s done.

He fumbled with his fingers and pressed his back into the wool comforter of his seat.

“Not only that, but having a sense of the world with humans. I want to eat at a restaurant without panicking at the idea that I’m not making any progress. I want to hang glide or attend a play at a local theater without thinking that I’m not helping people by doing this. It doesn’t have to be complicated, it can be a little, but all I want is to get away from the feeling of being trapped in a box.”

“Trapped in a box.”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Greene wrote notes without a second thought, Steven hearing the hushed scratches of her pen. Was she making sense of this? He hoped she was making sense of this.

“A strong way to describe it.”

He tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Boxes are small spaces, with the potential of suffocation. They contain, they limit.”

Oh. “Yeah, it really does feel that way.”

“Steven, where do you feel the box?”

“Huh?”

“When and where do you feel this specific feeling?”

Steven stared down onto his lap. He noted the stitching in his clothes, the material of his shirt. He was the one who initiated in the first place and yet it was hard to give her a good answer.

“I think,” he tapped onto his own notepad, going by the rhythmic tick of the clock above his bed. “Beach City. Days after I left my town, I was anxious, really anxious, but now that I’m here, it feels like I’m given a chance somehow.”

She smiled. Of course she would, she was the one who encouraged him to go out on his own when the idea popped into his mind. “So, when you’re given the ability to live by your own terms, you’re free from this feeling of suffocation or enclosure you felt when you were within your hometown?”

He nodded. It sounded about right.

“Can we hone in for a second?”

“Okay.”

Both of them hunkered down into their seats — Steven more so than his therapist, who looked pleased to just lean and sift through her folder than screw up her eyesight any further.

“Now, we’ve encircled a great deal of area when it comes to the prompting of ‘the box feeling’. Steven, what I want to ask of you — if you’re ready to, it doesn’t hurt to take your time — is whether there were certain sections in Beach City that emphasized this feeling more than any other.”

Steven bit his lip. The hardest part of these sessions was always, what he nicknamed, the unearthing. Every piece of memory he could scrounge up always left the equivalent of a hornet’s nest on his heart whenever he took too much time in focusing on it. It made sense to why it was painful and why therapists had to support the patient when it came to facing the past; not only the ugly aspects of one’s self, but the unpleasant truth that anyone could hurt you, even when their intentions are good.

Dr. Greene gave him a moment to grab mints, supplements, and a glass of his favorite drink. When this happened, the two of them would work on whatever he had scurrying under the conscious surface. It wasn’t enjoyable, yet he couldn’t help but admit that the aftermath always had some weight off his shoulders. The lack of guilt and burden was enough to make him trudge through the most scarring of material. And the ability to say to himself that he’s gotten better was even more satisfying.

For now, he indulged in drinking the warm cup of hot chocolate next to him.

“Are you comfortable with this, Steven?”

He looked back at her and gave a nod. Not hesitant this time, but stern.

“Yes, of course.”

“Inside the limits of Beach City, what areas make you feel more susceptible to 'the box feeling'?"

He kept his eyes squarely on his mug, words stuck in his throat.

There were areas to consider and ponder. He wasn't an expert in identifying which feelings were more intense or heart-wracking; he could only label with certainty the pressure and response his body would have under the specific feeling. For Beach City, it had that weight, that weariness when he explored the memories. The soft treks on the boardwalk were mixed with thoughts of Aquamarine and the Beach citizens held hostage inside Topaz’s body. The lighthouse was now plagued with how he kissed the ground and the dent in the verdant fields from Spinel’s previous encounter. The expanse of the beaches reminded him of being totaled by a single head butt, the horrid pressure of Yellow Diamond's heel against his shield, the utter terror of decimating the Beach House when he was...

"The beach house."

At Dr. Greene's inquisitive look, he continued. "The beach house. I feel trapped in the beach house, and when I think about all the stuff that happened in the house, I don't feel like myself."

She wrote this all down.

"I cried so many times to myself in the bathroom because I was afraid and angry all the time. The bathroom can't even be a safe place for me to think anymore, not after everything that happened, not after...."

Dr. Greene had been equipped with information about Steven's background. She knew of his adventures, his genetics, the otherworldy hum of his gemstone before he first took steps into the office at age sixteen. She never questioned it much. Even if she did, she took his word in complete stride and never allowed some weird judgment to pervade her throughout their sessions. Sometimes it bugged him, made him think there was a secret fear in her words when she talked to him. At his worst, he saw what he presumed was panic when she was calm through his moments, where his sentences were laced with anger and the turmoil that his situation would never get better. But it did. Everything did get better eventually. His life still felt slogged at times, yet there was a feeling that something was being understood, heard in some way. And it led things to be better, allowed him to think that, yes, she had an inkling of what he meant. That she won't leave him in the dark out of fear.

"I never had a door or a way to take care of myself without the fear that anyone could judge me at any moment, like it felt pointless to experiment with who I am. Me. I don’t know. I think I talked to you about this a lot before."

“That means we’re getting closer,” she said.

“Huh?”

“When certain events or memories pop up in repetition, that means there’s an importance to the emphasis. To clarify, Steven, when you feel trapped, your own home prompts it. Your bedroom and bathroom, in particular?”

“Well, it’s not just the bedroom and bathroom. There’s my mom’s room, we talked about that one before.”

Dr. Greene nodded.

“Every time I go in there, I want to cry or...throw up. All it does is bring up wish fulfillment and nothing real. When I see the things that are inside there, all I could feel is this...lack of change that I don’t want to think about."

His therapist still kept silent.

“And I feel happy that my own house got changed because you've no idea how nerve-wracking it was to imagine the old layout; it’s like I’m picturing a ghost every time.”

“When it comes to ‘the box feeling’, do you feel it when you're on your journey?"

"I don't know." He knew the answer wasn't enough but he kept thinking, trying to find an answer. "Maybe, it's been months. I'm sor—I'm lost on where to start."

"We're going to be okay, Steven."

The reassurance was clear in her voice, and the idea of her theoretically holding his hand left him slackened in his seat. So Steven started to think more. He wanted to press deeper, to see the lines and pathways he wanted to take himself through. There were the schedules, the checklists, the logs to keep each memory and emotion of himself safe. Was there any fear in them? Did he harbor fear for his newfound friends and acquaintances? Where did the fears lie?

"There were moments where I felt my own...person — my own humanity? — being threatened." 

The words were slogged in his mouth, unable to ease itself through. 

"The only moment I’m certain about was Cedar Point. I felt distraught over my own definition, of who I wanted to be."

He gave her a pained grin.

"It feels confusing just to say it right now, even when we talked about this before."

After that came a long bout of silence. It was discomforting, but Dr. Greene's eye contact — how soft, at ease, it was — left some relief in him that it wasn't going to be bad. Maybe it was. Maybe it was very bad. However, all he could do was just wait. He allowed for the hush to become a new friend rather than an obstacle and watched his therapist work to herself, how she jotted down her bullet points without another word.

There was the quiet click of Dr. Greene's pen.

"Throughout this whole session, what can you tell me about ‘the box feeling’ now?”

“Erm…”

Steven looked over at the clock.

“Don’t worry, we have enough time.”

He looked back at her, teeth digging into his lip. “I don’t know. I...I guess it has to do with my home?”

“When you’re in your home, can you tell me why you experience that particular feeling?”

“I feel stuck.” 

Steven tried to get it. He went slow and heard every word that came to him. 

“Trapped. Like I can’t change, or I’ll change for the worse.” 

There, there it was. It’s coming to him. It’s almost there, oh God. 

“Change. I don’t feel human if I can’t feel change. When I stayed in the beach house, I felt like I couldn’t, I was alien in my own skin.”

Go. Go. It was almost all there.

“I was stuck. The past was always there.”

He could remember the flicker of his skin. The pinkness of his retinas. The Diamond-build.

“I wanted the choice to leave and...become myself on my own terms.”

Steven was shaking, sweaty, and tense. He needed to breathe, nice and slow, in and out through the buzz. Yet he couldn’t stop the small grin on his lips.

Everything was going to be okay. He did it, he goddamn did it.

“I am Steven Universe. I define myself first.”

He watched Dr. Greene move in her chair, and though there was a barrier between them, Steven could see the pride on her face.

“Steven, I’m going to send you an optional course to the app. You don’t have to discuss this with me in a future session unless you want to, but this will help you, okay?”

Steven nodded and smiled at her.

“Okay.”

▢Try something new. 

* * *

Mackinac looked peaceful in the wintertime. The lack of leaves on the trees, the humble brick buildings that met his eye whenever he drove around — something about it gave him an atmosphere that he couldn’t put his finger on. It was something similar to watching a movie, where he starred himself in the middle of nowhere, with its expanse of blanketed trees that flooded his walks down the lone car lanes. Steven could imagine himself inhaling and taking in the fresh air in the clipped film haze. He could believe in the idea that he needed a new start with how the wind ruffled his hair under his woolen beanie. And maybe that’s what he needed. It made sense with the assignment he got, anyway. He wanted to experiment, become his own being — go through the phases of self-identity and rebellion that he always wanted to replicate from those cheesy teen flicks he would watch late at night. Because there was always that allure of rebelling one day. Rebelling from what? He had no clue, but he wanted to go somewhere, to drive along the banks of the Mackinac coast, and not look back.

Lights hung and wrapped themselves from lampposts and partitions in the city of Kalamazoo. Everywhere he went he could see the snow filling the streets, of crossroads and sidewalks shoveled clean, and he’d take his time staring at the snowflakes that dazzled the sky like stars fallen from a distant galaxy. When he didn’t give himself a moment to stare at the awe of snow and at the beauty of it against the presence of brownstone, the thoughts of Dr. Greene would occupy him, keep him busy in the chilly sunsets and twilights.

Identity was a major thing to him. He had pondered so much about his mother — about who she was and why she’d hidden so much from him — to the point that the question of who he definitely seemed incomplete. His own identity wasn’t Rose Quartz or Pink Diamond, but his outlook on his own character and feelings felt jumbled, a slight disorganization. Scratch that. His identity and feelings were a mess, he just never took a magnifying glass to it until the incident two years ago. 

Slowly yet diligently, Steven began to find portions of himself he loved through his therapy. It took months to be able to write down what he liked about himself, why he was important to other people. He liked that he knew what time it was. He liked that he had a simple fashion sense. Next thing he knew, he told more: his adoration for nature, his ability to see happiness that emanated around him, the ease of kindness and understanding that he propped himself on. Even the tiniest loves — where he saw himself as a decent wrestler, a whiz at RPGs and beat-em-ups, a unique off-brand Gordon Avon in the kitchen — had to be embedded into him that they were legitimate, that they weren’t just lies he put into his head just to mock himself. But after the basis of his mind settled to something organized, palatable, the question of his own appearance never hit him until now.

What did he, Steven Cutie Pie DeMayo Diamond Universe, _want_ for himself? He had gotten the stubble, the best friend, the beginning support system, the road trip, but how far shall he go? Will he change himself entirely? The idea of it left him rigid at the thought.

He went faster at the crossings. It was hard to focus at this time, but he would rather not have himself get lost or be conked out by a car just because he was distracted. There was too much to think about, and all he could do was start from the beginning. Progress was progress, even if all of it were baby steps. Better than not doing anything, anyway.

The Kalamazoo Mall was the nearest area on the Boogle Maps. With a tiny sniffle, Steven maneuvered through groups of passersby as the surroundings began to change. Banks, business centers, and staff firms transformed to something more noticeable, familiar. Signs for clothing stores with bold percentage signs were plastered on passed windows. People would huddle over in their jackets and fiddle with shopping bags as they trekked from the next shop to the next. He went by posters of old buildings shut down for the day, and found brand new chains set up at a corner or intersection — something with the name of Williamsons or Kruger’s, coupons and totes at the glass doors, tired shoppers swiping sheets of snow off the nearby benches. Everything about it left him restless and content. There was a bustling feeling to everything amongst the crisp air and breath of the season. The atmosphere didn’t intimidate him, and the idea of experimenting enticed him even more.

He stopped at a little establishment. It was squished between _Pepe’s_ and a _Suitcase Sam’s._ The front of it harbored a barber pole that jutted from the side, the sign above it reading _Smithee Westerns_ in a curly font. It was a good start. He never had tinkered with his hair much; the only time he thought of it was from an upset thought once or twice of pink dye, and the wanting to go bald on occasion just for laughs.

Hair can grow back, that’s the kicker here. It wasn’t like piercings where you had to take tedious procedures to remove a ring or a stud from your body. It was a temporary painless action that Steven could fumble and try out without the loss of his good looks. And the idea of it seemed so ideal that he didn’t notice he was already inside until the person at the counter asked for his name.

“Oh, it’s Steven. Steven Universe.”

After a discussion of credits, appointments, and hair products, Steven plopped onto a chair and started to read a hairstyle magazine. The waft of soap and conditioner, the rush of water from the stalls behind the counter, kept him occupied while he perused. His fingers scanned the faces of gorgeous men, women, and enbies. Each one had a different look: mohawks, bobs, afros, braids; some looked at the camera with extreme confidence, glowing with it, like the picture was their stage, their masterpiece. And maybe it was. And he wished for that confidence, to look smart and handsome without going anxious on whether he was selfish or not for taking the shot. Each haircut had some message to it, a conveyance of a person’s appeal, and as he shifted through the cuts there was a wonder on which one would fit.

If he had a mohawk, would people be afraid of him? He would look like a punk; a cool one, at that.

Buzz cuts could show him as a fearless man. Or very head naked. He had no clue which result was better.

Yet there were pictures of men with braids and beards and Steven asked himself if he could fit with such a look. Would he be able to flip his hair in such a way that would make Connie giggle or make a passerby see it as scandalous? Too scandalous to be that cute, no doubt!

But there are afros too! Wait, he already had one. Is curly hair an afro? Can he make himself even curlier and poofier? The thought of him adorned with the hairstyle made him shudder. It looked too much like her. It would be too much.

“Brady’s waiting for you!” The woman at the counter announced.

Steven looked up. He wasn’t even finished with the issues. “Oh, okay!”

“Feelin’ nervous, darlin’?” She asked him as he grabbed his stuff from the seat beside him.

He chuckled. “A little.”

She waved a manicured hand, a smile on her blue lips. “Don’t be, honey. Brady’s real good at helping out with styles. They’re a real master at haircuts.”

Despite the reassurance, Steven felt jittery as he walked through the rows of chairs. He saw a few men and women getting groomed, spun, adjusted. The buzzes of electric shavers and the roar of blow dryers now were the main music amongst the pop from the speakers. Steven frowned at the mirrors, how they stared at him back with the same man, the one that looked the same as him, adorned with eyebags, his bushy hair, the same clothing sense since childhood. It felt like an evaluation, a final judgment call while he walked through.

Brady had themself leaned over the stylist chair. Their smile was broad, a prominent crook between their two front teeth. “Nice to meet you, sweetie.”

“Hello, you’re Brady, right?”

“In the flesh.” Brady propped themself up and allowed their bomber jacket, which was bunched up from the press of the chair, to breathe around their form at the release. They swiveled the chair towards him. “Take a seat.”

Steven sat down and chuckled when the chair moved again. He found himself in front of himself, Brady’s sunset-dyed quiff behind him.

“Now, tell me, pick your poison for today.”

“Poison?” Steven scrunched his nose.

“Hairstyles. I could go for a nice side sweep myself, but for you, you seem to be the type of person who’s looking for something new.”

“Well, I don’t really know,” he said.

Brady raised an eyebrow. “Undecided, hm? Imma tell Maddy to be more patient with customers in the future.” They frowned. “Customers need time.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Steven shook his head and gave him a nervous laugh. “Well, actually, I did have some ideas, I just didn’t know which one would suit me.”

“Well, if it’s experimenting you’re here for, I’ll be happy to help.”

“Wait, really?”

“Of course.”

“But I wouldn’t want to waste your—” He bit his lip. Shit. “I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

“Trust me, it’s all chill.” They chuckled, light and sweet. “It took multiple tries to feel like I was myself, I understand.”

Steven looked at Brady’s reflection. Something about them did emanate of peace, like they were comfortable in their own skin. “Multiple, huh?”

“It’s a trip.” Brady nodded. They grabbed a set of magazines and propped them onto the man’s lap, a male model smiling at him with a grey fauxhawk. “It’s all trial-and-error, but worth the time. I wouldn’t mind seeing you again if you’re going through a similar thing — well, who am I kidding, I’ve no clue what your journey is but I want to help.”

The main question was why? Why make so much time for a random person who fiddled on in without a good notion of who he was? Brady seemed lenient on helping him understand, piece together what he wanted, what his identity wa—

And that’s when it hit him. Steven looked down at the pages again. He surveyed the sleek heads with their groomed features, the amount of confidence they harbored, the time put into making each style look unique. Each one had something to show, and he could only try to see if it was right.

He held contact with Brady’s eyes from the mirror.

“Something simple. I...I have a basic idea of what screams out ‘me’ but it would be cool to cut something. I’ve never cut my hair before. Not like this.”

“Cut where?”

“I don’t know.” He sifted through the magazine. There were crew cuts, flattops, bobs, perms. “I would like to grow it out someday. Put it in a cute ponytail.”

“Sounds cute to me.”

“But…”

Steven stopped on a page.

“Can I have this one?”

Brady looked over his shoulder and smiled at him.

“How high? You want it to the tips of the ears or?”

Steven giggled and squirmed in his seat.

“Tips of the ears. Keep the top fluffy.”

Steven was then wrapped in a stylist apron, and began to relax more into his seat. He found himself being examined by Brady as he closed his eyes, answered questions of his hairline while they ruffled the strands of his hair. There was the ability to zone out at the whirs of the clipper, how it brushed against the sides of his head, tickled him with each soft faded press, the brush of his locks with a quick comb. And when Brady tapped his shoulder, he allowed himself to grumble, the exhaustion snuffed out like a flame even when they kept their hands around his eyes.

“You ready?”

“M’ready.”

“Alright, open your eyes.”

Steven did. He noticed how the form in front of him looked similar to him. The same jawline. The same eyebags. The same tip and bump of the nose. Yet even with all that it still felt like he was facing a new figure in the mirror — where the curly locks now were the sole crown of the man’s scalp, the rest of his dark tufts shortened to a graze just like he requested.

The reflection had the same face as him. The same expression of bemusement. His fingers explored and fumbled the hairs between his thumb and ring finger. Everything seemed to zone out, get muffled under his gaze. It was only him and the new man. 

No. It wasn’t a new man. 

It was a new him.

“How ya’ feeling?”

“I feel.” Steven touched the fade between the undercut and the floof of his hair. It was soft to the touch and his heart went lighter at the sight. A grin grew on him. A giggle bubbled in his chest. “I feel really good.”

Brady beamed at him and the two spent the next few minutes admiring the mirror together.

⊠Try something new. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art drawn by @BellsnWhistles on Discord!


	11. Interlude Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few nerds told me of the potential for this, so I decided to do it.
> 
> Also my apologies for the wait! Been working on personal and art trade stuff but I'm definitely going to work more on this once again.
> 
> EDIT: Added the checkmark I forgot.

> **06:27pm** **You** EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
> 
> **06:28pm** **Berry <3 **oh wow that’s an interesting message to get back to. what’s up?
> 
> **06:28pm** **You** Oh nothing. I’m just having a fantastic splendid amazing day!
> 
> **06:29pm** **Berry <3 **and you’re very chipper about it lol, alright. you have to tell me what’s up, the suspense’s killing me
> 
> **06:29pm** **You** Ohh, are you surreeeee???
> 
> **06:29pm** **Berry <3 **i’m very sure biscuit
> 
> **06:30pm** **You** Are you realllly suuuureeee????
> 
> **06:32pm** **Berry <3 **sure enough like my will to get through this semester? yes.
> 
> **06:33pm** **You** I got a haircut!
> 
> **06:33pm** **Berry <3 **wait
> 
> **06:36pm** **You** Got it half an hour ago, and Connie, I’m going to burst through my apartment door, I’m so happy! I’ve always wanted to get a haircut and it feels like I made a great step just by doing so. It’s so cool too, it’s an undercut and it’s still really really fluffy. It still feels like me, it really does!
> 
> **06:37pm** **You** Wait, why did you say 'wait'?
> 
> **06:45pm** **You** Connie, you okay?
> 
> _Delivered_

Steven frowned at how the dot near Connie’s name became grey — she had gone inactive. He had been walking, skipping actually, back to his building ever since he paid and gotten Brady’s number, and now he found himself slowing down, confused at the last message his best friend sent before she blipped to nothing. It was weird to see Connie go offline with a snap of the finger. But maybe he was thinking too much? It must’ve been an emergency or something on her end that held her up. He hoped it wasn’t something huge like a death in the family or an issue with her admission process. If anything happened, he promised to have her over just for hugs and cuddles. T’was the jam bud way, after all.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the ends of his new undercut tickling his palm. The street wasn’t occupied, and he decided to take a quick breath of the clean air before he continued onward. Guess he’d just wait for her to respond. It wasn’t like anything bad was happening on her end. Was there?

It didn’t take long for him to arrive at the flat’s porch. With the push of the door, the cold air rushed into the desolate entrance of his temporary home as the alarm beeped for one second before going silent once again. Steven closed the door behind him and allowed the atmosphere to mellow, the soft jazz from his radio the only occupant of his home as he dropped the keys at the terracotta bowl. Steven hummed to the song, swishing his hips to the trumpets.

There was something nice about having his own space. The ability to call all of it his own was the greatest gift this road trip had ever given him and Steven embraced the autonomy in his tired steps, the ability to plop his shoes to the ‘home sweet home’ mat, enthralled in the fact he could keep some clothes in the pantry without Pearl’s remarks of laundry day. To know that everything — the walls, the rooms, the interior design — was his. It allowed safety and privacy, gave him moments at night where he allowed himself to cry or binge without the guilt of someone else around to shame him. He once worried about warp pads, the reminder of Homeschool checklists, the grind of work and teeth at the work desks, but now he could just focus on the quiet. The apartment had him, and nobody else. Just him.

Then came the crash behind him, loud and raucous. Steven turned quickly, only to find a new set of figures braced in the confines of the corridor he was in a few minutes before. One of them crowded the entryway with its huge pinkly form, the other being—

"Connie!”

"Hey!" His girlfriend of a few years didn’t look any different no matter how long the time had gone. She had her hair tied in a ponytail, a pair of reading spectacles on the bridge of her nose as she clambered down Lion’s back. “Sorry about the mess. You texted about a haircut and I _had_ to get the deets.”

"No kidding." Steven chuckled. “Like a snap of a finger.”

He looked over her shoulder and found Lion still squished in the hallway, not making a move. What was he waiting for, anyway? 

"First off, let's get you guys a cup of cocoa, and _then_ you can have a taste of my hair."

Connie giggled. "Of course, but having a drink with a side of hair doesn’t sound appetizing.”

Steven smirked. “Too bad.”

With Lion nestled up in a spare comforter, Steven had no problem brewing up chocolate just for the two of them. As the two visitors relaxed and got settled in the living room, Steven found himself performing the comforting act of cooking. He had done so before, when nothing was around except the patter of snow on his windows and an 80s movie on the television. His hands worked with flour, dough, and the sizzle of the oiled pan. Steven had used cookbook recipes on his phone and listened to podcasts the internet recommended to him when he was bored, but now that he had the audience of two of his favorite people, there was solace in being able to show the newest recipe he learned from Tubetube. He gathered bits and pieces of dark chocolate from the sugar stash in his fridge and began the process of heating milk on the saucepan. The smell of cocoa brought him to a place of familiarity, surroundings fading to background noise as he focused on his work, fumbling with the teaspoons and the bottle of cinnamon from the spice rack. It reminded him of younger years, where the gems would gather and light up wood for the fireplace. He and Connie rested upon pillows with smores, filling the house with laughter as they sipped their drinks. The memory wasn’t a tainted one; he felt happy to remember it, too.

Steven placed two mugs on the counter, steam whipping out like tails while he returned the ingredients back to their cupboards, humming to the radio in his autopilot. When he turned around, he found Connie gazing at him from the counter, fiddling with the ends of her hair.

Steven gave her a small smile. "You okay, Connie?"

“Fine,” she mumbled. 

Steven rubbed his arm. He placed the cinnamon back in its place. “You’re staring at me. Is there something on my face?”

She shook her head, giggling a little. “No, no. It’s not that. Not at all.”

He placed the teaspoons into the sink. “Then what?”

"I just..." Connie looked dazed, grinning sheepishly. "I just can't stop looking at your haircut."

"Oh." His cheeks flushed. He pressed his fingers to his neck, felt the hairs caress his fingertips, the heat from his embarrassment warming him up. "It's a new look I'm trying. Took a while to get it right, but it's what I wanted."

“It’s quite a look.” Connie smiled more. She tapped at the counter, creating a small beat. "I’ve never seen you with a different hairstyle before.”

“You’ve seen me bald.”

“Fake bald. There’s a difference.” She leaned over the counter a little. “May I?”

His heartbeat went faster. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay.” Steven pulled his hands down. "Ye-yeah. I don't mind."

Steven couldn’t help the slight shudder at how light her touch was against his neck. She trailed her fingers up to the base of his skull; they messed with the curls, each digit fumbling with ease. There wasn't harshness when she brushed the transition between tufts and graze, when she leaned even more to lock eye contact with him, making him giggle from the ticklish sensation.

"It's so soft." Her laugh was light as a breeze, and made his heart trip at the sound of it. "Makes you look very handsome too."

"Connie," he whined.

"I'm joking. You were already handsome before this."

“Connieeeee.”

She grinned. Her hands found their way to his cheeks. "Call me greedy, but it makes me want to kiss you right now."

"You’re not greedy. I wouldn't mind a bit of smooching," he whispered, leaning close to murmur into her ear. "Been a while since we had a date."

Connie snorted. "Only been two days, Steven."

"Too long, Berry."

Her voice was low, a whisper like his. “Then let’s start the date right now.”

“But what about y—?”

“I’ll be fine, Steven. A few rom-coms wouldn’t hurt.”

“Mm, alright.”

Connie came around the kitchen top. Without another word, Steven leaned forward and captured her lips against his in a soft kiss. He allowed her fingers to wander the fade of his cut, exploring the crown of his hair in tangles, the dance of his body against hers. It felt weird to be appraised by touch — how carefully Connie held the back of his head, how she brought him in embrace without another word between them. It made him feel special, loved, but most of all his heart soared with an emotion he’d never taken note of before. There was pride. Pride for himself, the choices he made, and the fact that there was someone there who paid attention to it, acknowledged it as something good rather than bad. It was nice to be intimate, but it was nice to be reaffirmed that, in the end, he was still himself.

⊠Spend some time with Connie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference created by @BellsnWhistles on Discord!
> 
> @BirdGem on Discord also has created fanart, which could be found [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/707302185716809958/Undercut_Stevo.jpg), [here](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/672205135824551937/709511190203727923/20200511_164912.jpg?width=1204&height=677), and [here!](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/672205135824551937/709511223162699817/20200511_165751.jpg?width=1204&height=677)


	12. West Delmarva Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> West Delmarva is West Virginia.
> 
> CW: Portrayal of a panic attack.
> 
> An update but I'll be currently editing the way the chat messages look so thank you for your time!

West Delmarva was similar to Delmarva. Well, not really.

Steven had seen a good portion of Delmarva before, with its beautiful plains, strips of woodlands, and tempting coastlines complete with radiant sunsets. It had its own culture, and traditions that scattered their way throughout the entirety of the region. But West Delmarva, the blot of territory hanging onto the tip of its brother, was adamant about not being seen as such.

The citizens had made it clear that they weren't associated with the larger region, and instead took pride in showing off what their own state had to offer. There were national parks scattered throughout the province and cities rich with tradition and recreation. Skiing was their go-to in the winter, hiking was the forte of many, and if anyone tried to relate them to Delmarva they would joke about how it was only a matter of time before Delmarva got sucked into their western counterpart entirely. He had seen it too, with an apple juice in his hand, when the barmates started to jab at the state and the fact they could roll through the borders from the lack of security. Was it a childish competition, a form of culture filled with past political hatred? Not really. West Delmarvans just really liked to hate on Delmarvans, and that was that.

The whole deal with West Delmarva had something potent to Steven, however. The way they boasted was what got to him. The citizens would bask in their leisure, revel in their alcohol with an intense passion for the culture, and they didn't hesitate to mention that there was a famous country song based on their state too. People had immense pride in who they were, and Steven felt envy amidst the joy.

It took days for him to get out of his comfort zone. He tried new things before. He embarked on hikes with Connie and formulated schedules to see haunted houses and roadside attractions. He trekked footpaths and park trails with a few enthusiasts like himself, watched birds through the canopies, and took a gander at bugs that crawled on the forest floor. Steven had pursued these passions countless times and every moment had gotten easier. But new activities took more than a few weeks, and with the festive sports that came around at this time of year, he needed to start learning fast before the snow melted.

Steven had shown interest in skiing before, but the one thing that made him nervous was the utilization of his skills. Steven had done these before with sleds and shield boarding. He knew the way he could tilt his legs, apply pressure to the surface of his medium to create majestic dives into the snow, but how easy was it to translate something of this caliber without the use of his gem powers? It wasn’t a selfish question, not really. Steven didn’t want to cheat on a game that was very human-orientated; he didn’t plan on upsetting anyone if they were going to cry heresy or something of that kind if he wouldn’t adjust to the new rules. It was hard to think about it too, because it couldn’t be that hard, right? It was sliding down snow in style. He’d already done this before, albeit with a number of gem fusions chasing him down. He was just being a chicken about it, a huge chicken, and that wasn’t something he wanted to show.

He found himself occupied by the waft of brew, the bustle of families around him in the tiny coffee shop. There were maps in pockets and snowboards perched at the racks. Children whined about their boots and how tired they were, men discussed family drama in different languages, and Steven kept to his table as he listened to what they said. Many wanted to take a chance at the hillocks and the downward roads of the white-layered mountain range of Snowshoe, and he could say, albeit with hesitation, that he wanted the same thing. 

In front of him were two saucers, each one occupied with a red-lined cup — one for him and one for his instructor. He tapped the end of his ceramic mug and waited, humming the lyrics to a Mike Krol song playing on his Walkman. It’s been a while since he’d done something like this with someone. It took an hour to even be reassured by the people at the desk that yes, a junior instructor was crucial for him to be safe on the slopes, and Steven couldn’t battle worried officials over the fact he could handle the process on his own.

When the bell above the door rang, his eyes shot up. A man sidled through the crowds to get to him, rustling in his layered jackets. Snow was powdered on his shoulders from the gear burdening him, which was bizarrely large compared to the man’s short stature.

Steven smiled and waved him over. “Hey, it’s nice to meet you!”

His instructor pushed the seat out. The gear clinked against one of the table legs. The man had a grizzled look to him. He looked like a lumberjack, or a bear, from how his beard rode his chin up to the sides of his head; his stocky build making up for his short height. But the smile the man gave radiated with energy, and stunned Steven with the high-pitched voice that came out of it.

“Nice to meet you too. You’re Mr. Universe — Steven, right?”

Steven blinked and quickly brought his hand out. “I-in the flesh!”

“Steven!” He grinned, returning the handshake with a hearty laugh. “It’s nice to meet ya’! The name’s Shayan, your Junior Instructor.”

“O-oh.” Steven gazed at him, stunned. It felt otherworldly to hear such a pubescent voice out of such a burly figure. He rubbed the side of his head. “Feel free to sit down, I ordered cocoa.” 

“Thank you.” Shayan sat down. He carefully moved the closest cup by the handle. “Is this for me?”

“I didn’t know what type of drink you’d want so I got some hot chocolate. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Are you…” Steven rubbed the back of his neck. “...okay with it? I could get you something different like a coffee.”

Shayan looked at him with surprise. “No, it's okay! Not a man of bitter tastes, so it's perfect.”

The two of them settled into their seats. Steven fished a map from his jacket pocket and handed it over to the other. Shayan unfolded it on the table, laying the ends far out until the illustrations of Snowshoe covered most of the surface. Shayan pressed his fingers onto a few of the locations — the boathouse restaurant at the bottom of the lake and the lines that trailed down the slopes — with a small hum.

“I don’t know where to start,” Steven admitted. “The office told me instructors are really good at recommending what routes to take, so I waited for you.”

Shayan clicked his tongue. “Yep, well, it depends on the difficulty. Since you’re new to this we’re going to start slow — a green route should work, don’t want to kick your butt in just a few hours.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got previous experience.”

“You do?”

“Just a little.” Did shield boarding even count?

“Great! Then I’m going to give you the basics to freshen your memory. All the rules, expectations, everything you need to know before we hit the road.”

Steven watched Shayan’s gloved fingers dip to a few of the mountains on the map, down the green routes, the crosshatches of terrain present throughout the declines.

“As your instructor, it’s my job to make sure you have fun on this trip. Don’t be afraid to tell me if you feel off or if you’re not ready for something.”

Shayan peered at the windows after a moment, and Steven did the same. The sun was beginning to climb through the clouds; they’d have to start soon if they wanted the most out of their experience.

“Feelin’ excited?” Shayan asked. “You look tense.”

“Just a lot of wormy feelings,” he reassured. From what he saw with the map, they were going to take all the green routes for today — the easiest out of the many that were emblazoned in yellow, red, and black, signifying their difficulty. It felt weird to see that they weren’t going to partake in them first. He didn’t know why.

His instructor patted him square on the back. “Don’t worry. It’s gonna be difficult at first, but I can tell you’re the type who can pick up quickly.”

Steven hoped he was.

With their cups empty and bodies warm from the communal atmosphere, they started off to the slopes with the skiing gear in hand. The haze of the mountains left Steven breathless. He could see the pinnacles and the oceans of wilderness that spilled down the earthly scapes, monumental compared to how tiny they were even amongst the scales of the Snowshoe buildings. The tracks of the land went on forever, bounding off to the horizon without an end in sight, making Steven wonder if the world was ever-changing, the same as humans. That if one observed the cracks in the Earth, the bloom of petals on a quiet day when nothing else is around, there would be the same change that he himself had — where beings grow and form, become more from experience and circumstance. In his awe, he trailed behind Shayan to the parking lot, where both of them strapped on their gear and made their way to the beginner routes.

* * *

“Alright, Skill Builder’s a very beginner route,” Shayan explained to him.

Steven had been stuck trying to hook his feet into the ski bindings for a few minutes now, but he kept his eyes on his instructor as he rambled on. The clouds stopped blocking the sun when they arrived, and now the skies were clearer, the slope they were on occupied with novices and children who weren’t confident about taking the trails.

“The biggest thing for you to remember is that mindset is everything. Confidence is huge, even if you eat powder on the way you need that confidence to direct yourself.”

Steven nodded as he clanked his boot into the bindings to no avail. Sounds easy enough.

“Do you need help?”

“I’m fine,” Steven grunted. “Wait a sec.”

Shayan skied himself over and took a look. “The heel isn’t up, move it.”

He popped the heel into place and was relieved to see the boot finally click into the bindings.

“Oh, thanks! For a second I thought I was gonna have to ski with one board.”

“That’s painful, so I’m glad you didn’t.” Shayan clicked his tongue as Steven grabbed the poles that jutted out of the ground next to them. “Few things. Keep your legs balanced and stable, don’t lean back.”

“Got it.”

“There are a few ways to move around. We could use the poles first then the skating method.”

“Wait.” Steven gripped the poles more. “I know how to skate.”

“Alright. It has a similar idea, but we’re going to do a few warmups to make sure you have the basics down-pat.” Shayan placed his legs into a V position and scrunched his body down by the hips. “When we work with this, direct pressure to the entire length of the skis.”

Steven stared at the man’s position. “By shimmying?”

“No, like a penguin kinda. It’s better that you do it, the experience is the perfect teacher.”

“Oh, uh.” Steven could feel the balance between his skis, how it buckled even when he adjusted his position to something more akin to a crouch. It was nerves, he needed to make sure his confidence was there. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

With a push, he slid himself on the hard-packed snow. A little bit, just a little.

“Okay good!” Shayan chimed. “Do it again.”

Steven pushed again, this time exerting more of his weight onto the skis. He went further than a few inches, and started to gain speed.

“Good, keep going! Keep in the cycle!”

He motioned himself forward. The breeze started to pick up through his hair and at that moment he realized he was going down the slope, slowly building up speed. His heartbeat took to his ears, elation at an all-time high. There was one problem, however.

“Shayan?”

“Yes?” His voice was to the right of him, close but too far.

“How do I stop!?”

“Do the V!”

He opened up the ski tips.

“No, the other V!”

“You didn’t tell me there was another—!”

Steven yelped and tumbled into the mounds of powder that bordered the track.

“Steven!”

Steven groaned as his instructor began to skate over to him. Nothing seemed hurt, there was cold pressed against his face but the only thing that was noticeable was how his legs were affixed in a janky mess — not broken, just tangled and stuck from the ski boards.

Shayan skied towards him and gave Steven a once-over. His eyes were unreadable through his goggles. “Hey, you know how to disentangle, right?”

“I do.”

Steven attempted to move his limbs. He watched the skis click and clack against one another, and felt his stomach dip at how his instructor kept his gaze on him. He couldn’t see his expression but Shayan’s eyes must’ve been laughing, laughing at him.

“Okay so,” Shayan got closer to him. The man started to move Steven’s legs, propped one away from the other as if he were a toy soldier, and carefully brought them back to their respective positions. “Alright, that should do it. Just be aware of your legs and the fact you can move them back and forth, then we won’t have this same problem again.”

Steven’s chest ached at that. He pushed himself up after a few more minutes of struggle — damn his legs, why can’t skis be like a shield? — and was brought to by another pat on the back from his instructor.

“You did great there, Steven. Just make sure to keep an eye on your formation, ‘specially when you’re trying to slow down. Got it?”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Steven felt the words burning his lungs.

Why did it feel degrading to be told this in such a manner? Why did it have to be said with those goggles on? They looked way too much like Garnet’s, Shayan had the same uptight words too. But that couldn’t be it, his instructor was trying his best to help. He had to be interpreting it wrong.

He kept at it with the first few lessons, however. Throughout the face-fulls of snow and the wobbly balance on his knees and hips, he followed through with Shayan’s instructions, sought it even when his body started to ache at the toil with every new fall, trip, and tribulation the sun witnessed from above.

“Let’s take a quick break,” Shayan suggested, his smile still bright as ever. “Stuff like this can wear a newbie out, even trainers like me.”

“I’m okay with that.” It was only day one and he already felt the heaviness bore into his chest. There were a lot of things to ponder about, and to think he was already failing at such a simple task like this should’ve screamed it out if that was anything to go by. Being a letdown reminded him of a million things, a million mistakes, and there was an anxiety slithering in his chest — that he had done something wrong, that a break wasn’t what he wanted. Then why did he decide to agree? He should be working more to improve, he’s not supposed to be around rewards if he can’t get skiing down pat!

“You okay, Steven? You look really pale.”

Steven came-to at the click of fingers in front of his face. He faced a steaming cup of mocha at his nose, Shayan peering at him with a quirked eyebrow. Steven blinked slowly. He looked down at his hands, gloved but shaky nonetheless. Glancing around made him note the oaky interior around them, the bustle of patrons amidst the clink of dinnerware.

“I am?”

“Yeah, you are. And you’re sweaty too.” He frowned. “Steven, how many layers are you wearing?”

“A lot. Ton of shirts, jackets, underwear. I’m pretty fine.”

“Okay then.” Steven could tell he wasn’t at ease, that the man’s eyes were still on him even with the assurance. Shayan took a swig from his drink. “So, how are you feeling with your first routine today?”

“Pretty good.” Not that good. “It’s cool to have leg extensions, it makes me feel like a penguin.”

“Wouldn’t say penguin, but maybe a cool musk ox and leopard seal hybrid.” Shayan chuckled and took a swig from his latte. His goggles were perched on his forehead, eyes softened in the shop light. “You’re doing really well for a beginner — it takes a while for someone to get used to all of this. Practice being the eye of the beholder or something.”

“Yeah, practice is really important.” Practice makes perfect. “I’m having a fun time doing all of this. The last time I did something I didn’t have anyone to teach me except for my best friend.”

“Oh? Which sport?”

“Rollerskating.”

Shayan snorted a little. “Ah yeah, I busted my ass a few times with that, I can tell ya’. You must be lucky to have people to help you out then.”

A dry laugh. “Yeah, I really needed it.”

“And of course,” Shayan said, eyes crinkled in delight. “I’m always willing to help too. As your instructor, I’m assigned to make your trip the best trip ever.”

Steven put on a smile and gripped the warmth in his hands tighter.

“Then let’s hit the snow, I want to learn.”

▢Become better. 

* * *

It took Steven a while to see his first session as one he must begrudgingly climb. But he didn’t like it. He felt pushed against the current with every nudge and challenge, new areas were now mountains for him to trudge and climb. It was something that angered him throughout the entirety of their sessions — that with his recollection of practice, of work with each new maneuver, Shayan made it his goal to plop him into a newer route that made his heart pound at the prospect. 

But it felt stupid. Each route he selected was a bunny run, the easiest of the bunch, and Steven found himself wary over taking the plunge. He had been a leader before. He knew how to adapt to the surroundings, the new twists and turns in the journey. Yet all he could think about was falling, falling into rock bottom and not being able to come back out. He didn’t want to let down his instructor like the first time, and failure was something he didn’t want. 

A fire inside him grew as the days blurred by. He held it, allowed the kindling to rise to a stifling mess, and he prided himself in the burning. Each fall, trip, and suggestion upon his posture was a sliver of passion that he himself used as fuel to keep going on the slopes. There were opportunities to get better — they were everywhere, beckoning him to become better without another word. Each mistake he made was like an accelerant to an already hungry inferno. He had to be better, there was no other option. 

“I want to race you at Ballhooter.”

Shayan looked taken aback by this. Both of them had been doing the same green route for the past three days. “Ballhooter...the intermediate route?”

“I want to go down. Race you.” Steven puffed his chest at his instructor, who looked around as if he was waiting for someone to intervene. “I want to show you that I’ve improved. That I can go on the Widowmaker or the Sawmill.”

Shayan looked around again. Steven knew hesitation when he saw it.

“Please, Shayan.”

“Well.” Steven heard a tiny curse under his breath. “Man, if you’re so sure, then we can. You did improve a lot so if you truly are ready, then we can do it together.”

“I am.”

Both of them trekked up to the crest of the route. Steven had been here numerous times, stayed on its course, through rain and snow, for hours and, in the distance, he saw the endgame of their race. The chairlift station that petered from the top and down towards the bottom of the route was their flag, the end marker a small blip from how high up they were. Steven watched skiers turn into pinpricks of black against the inclines of white, the wind starting to build and brush at his hair. When the countdown started — whenever that happened — they’d be the same size from a sky-high view. They’d feel significant amongst the Earth, insignificant in size to the mightiest of animals. The thought made his gut clench as they readied themselves at the pinnacle.

Shayan gave him a thumbs-up. “Keep your legs steady. This’ll be a simple race.”

“Got it.” But there was more on the line than just a simple race to him.

His instructor put on his goggles. “Alright, good luck, Steven!”

Steven stayed put. He eyed the dip below him, the zips and blurs of the people yards away from him, and gave a steady breath.

“One.”

He tightened his jaw.

“Two.”

Back taut to the wind.

“Three.”

He had to win. He had to.

“Go!”

Steven started to gain speed as the descent took shape. He kept himself together and clasped the skis in his hands, ushering himself against the wind, his heartbeat thrumming into his ears. He felt the dips and swerves, Shayan’s tips repeating in his head.

_Don’t lean back._

_Keep weight on the downhill ski._

_Hands forward._

_Don’t fuck up._

He was falling. The mountains were too high, too rough. Every part of him was shaken, off-kiltered. Steven had ideas rush past him like a swarm of butterflies, rammed through the frost as if the material below him was a shield rather than two thin boards. Accomplishment. Accomplishment was the key here. Shayan was only a few feet away and his blood ticked with the drive of his body. He was a dancer upon the turbulence, eyes in front, sturdy and reliable. Steven tried to lean forward, press himself further to speed, but all he could hear was the rush of his blood. The heartbeat. Every part of his surroundings wanted to choke him, make him bleed into the darkness of his retinas.

 _Go. Go. You’re almost there. Don’t_ _let him win._

He practically plunged into the air. He couldn’t escape it. There was no exit from the sound of thumping and beating and pounding and Steven wanted to quit. Everything trapped in his chest. The drowning was there. He couldn’t see through the blurs and he was shaking, shaking to the ends of his soul.

Steven passed the final marker and his heart thundered. He could feel the pressure, each point about to submerge him into nothing but the mortifying depths. The ski tips closed into a V but the grip on his heart remained. The force squeezed him, made every part of him ache when the wind softened. Steven could see the victorious face of his instructor — how he smiled at him with such gleam — and the heaviness in his throat started more. _Breathe in. Breathe out. Everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay._

“Steven, are you alright?”

Crying wasn’t part of the plan. Shaking to the ends of his soles wasn’t what he wanted in the aftermath of what he thought was victory. But heat crawled to his eyes, left him shaky even when Shayan went over to him in a hurry. Why was he making a big deal out of this whole thing? Why did it feel so lonely to fail?

He wanted to go home, drag himself into whatever crevice there was in the Earth and cry his heart out. What would that do? He didn’t know, it was better than doing nothing at all while staring at his instructor, feeling smaller each second the man looked at him.

“Steven, Steven. It’s okay.” 

“No. No, please.”

He didn’t like the embrace the man gave or the scrape of their clothes, wet from the melted snow. Steven didn’t want to be here. He was vulnerable, out in the open. It all felt too much. He didn’t want to be here. He was on the edge of something horrible.

“I need to sit down.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Please, please Shayan.”

How long did it take for the warmth to come back to him? Because everything was cold, too cold, numbingly cold. He had nowhere to go except for his instructor. He heard his feet clack, the shriek of the crunched snow.

Where was he? He didn’t know what to do. Why was everything so hard to hold?

“Steven, breathe.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“You’ve got this. Breathe in.”

An inhale.

“Breathe out.”

An exhale.

The warmth took hold of him when a weight enveloped his form, pulsing within him in dull marks, and the world started to align again, brought back to somewhere familiar. There were chairs, the extravagant arms with their weathered surfaces, the touch of rough velvet upon his fingertips — and he started to breathe more, relieved at the feeling of being grounded. Here he was. Here he was. Nothing was going to hurt him. 

Just breathe in. Breathe out. He was fine.

Steven gave a ragged gasp as he focused on the warmth, on how it held him intact, together. Everything was going to be fine. The sentiment of it wore off as everything became grounded and _there_. He went livid at being flung from who knows where to somewhere grounded, and yet the relief came too when he looked around, took his surroundings in like a salve to a burn. He was in the lounge of the expedition station, employees in front of him looking on in worry with blankets and thermoses in their hands. His shaky fingers clung to the comfort of the chair and Shayan’s hand. Steven felt the weight upon his head, the shudder of his shoulders, and everything drained into fatigue. He was here. Finally here.

He was safe.

The expedition station made room for him with incense, the warm mugs on the coffee tables as he recovered from the panic attack. Every part of him felt sapped of strength. The race had taken a toll on him and now he saw the consequences of it. His arms were a shaky mess at the most basic of activities without help from someone like Shayan and it felt wrong to ask for his assistance too. Steven didn’t want to look at his instructor, or attend to his abandoned ski set a few couches away from him — all he could focus on was the flames that danced below the mantlepiece, where Steven ordered himself to breathe, keep his thoughts in check, and allowed the guilt to settle in like a ball chain. Shayan was quiet throughout. Steven didn’t know if the man ever took his eyes off of him ever since the event happened. Shayan stayed put, rested next to him when Steven dozed off or clinked his nails at the lip of his cup. It must’ve been some type of instructor code that made him watch with attentiveness, with the form of keen observation that screamed careful more than anything. It unnerved him enough to ask.

“I’m doing alright, Shayan. You don’t have to stare at me the whole time.”

Shayan blinked, astounded. He looked away, rubbing the back of his head. “Gosh, sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” Steven gave him a pained smile. “You were looking after me. That’s your job.”

“A job as a friend first and an instructor second,” he told him. Shayan rubbed his knees, a faraway gaze in his eyes. “I’m just so glad you’re okay. My training covered panic attacks before but I never expected some details to be left out if they were going to be important.”

He looked at him. “Details?”

Shayan hesitated. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“We have all day,” Steven reassured him.

“But are you sure you want to know about them? We wouldn’t want to worry you if it’s not necessary to recount.”

“I can handle it, trust me.”

His instructor bit his lower lip and let out a sharp exhale. “The classes talked about mindset and breathing practices to decrease the probability of an attack...but they never detailed specifics such as glow or growth in size.”

“Oh.” Steven grimaced. His heart ached at how the words echoed in his mind. They must’ve worked so hard to get him out of a debilitated state, away from the slopes when his mind waned and ebbed in its panic. “I’ll try to make up for it.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you guys a refund for that stuff.”

Shayan’s jaw went slack. “No, no.” 

“But you guys did so much for me, I have to pay you back,” he said, but Shayan shook his head.

“I’m not going to get your refund just because of something you couldn’t control.”

Steven tensed up.

“Anxiety and panic on the slopes are more probable than you think. It would be shitty for us to charge you more for something like that. Trust me, it’s fine.”

Steven couldn’t stop the guilt, however. It sat at the bottom of his gut, hard and ugly. He wanted to slink back into his seat and hide away in the warmth. “Okay, but it would be unfair for me to not apologize for all of this. I pushed myself too hard, I didn’t tell anyone what I was thinking, and all of you didn’t have to go through that.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

Shayan leaned forward a bit. “Steven, if anything, I should be the one to apologize.”

“What?”

He sighed, long and heavy. “You’ve been very intense throughout the sessions. I thought it was normal for you since you seem like a very work-oriented person, but no, it wasn’t. I mistook anxiety for intensity, and as your instructor, as someone who was assigned to not only help you but take care of your safety, I should’ve done more to help you.”

“But I didn’t tell you anything.”

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that I should’ve been more careful,” Shayan said.

Steven was tired, too tired to even work himself to argue as the world became more slogged. He wondered if it was normal for him to lay his head low, divert his eyes as he wished for the world to flash by in a heartbeat. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. All he could feel was the comfort of the fireplace and the fact he had nothing but a mug in his hands.

“Steven…”

Steven lifted his head again. Shayan’s face wasn’t solemn, something about it held a softness to it, a careful consideration.

“You’re human.”

He was...

“And you’re allowed to go at your own pace.”

“But it would mean I failed,” Steven mumbled. His arm pressed to his bicep. He felt the power under it, even with the shake of his fingers. “And I only have a few days left, I still suck.”

“Every day is a work in progress.” Shayan frowned. The quiet between them melded into something weird, indescribable. “You’re not bad, you really aren’t.”

“But the first days.”

“What about them?”

“I messed up multiple times.” Steven scratched at his knuckles. His exhales were heavy, a tremor in his lungs. “I’d just keep ramming my ass into the snow while everyone else did fine without me. All I ever did was fall.”

“But you stood up anyway.”

Steven blinked and gave the man a hesitant look. Shayan smiled at him.

“You stood up and fell again. And no matter how many times you fell, some part of you said to keep going.”

Steven paused. “I did…”

Shayan chuckled. “That deserves more cocoa, don’t you think?”

Steven’s eyes followed the white trails that whipped inside the cocoa. Some part of him felt loosened by the sight of it, fingers brought to tranquil stillness.

“It does,” Steven said.

⊠Become better. 


	13. West Delmarva Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Changed the date of January 06 to January 26.

**[RECORDING 01/26/20XX 00.00.01]**

**The frame centers on Steven. He has his arms folded on what appears to be an oak desk, a pencil and notepad on its surface. The background is filled with the furniture of numerous crocheted blankets on the brown-striped walls with the sound of a television show playing off-screen. The bedside light is open, leaving the room in a sleepy daze.**

**“Okay so. Hello, Future me.”**

**Steven has a few bags under his eyes. He smiles and waves at the camera.**

**“I just realized today that I neglected recording for a while. I’ve been training so much that I just forgot, heh, so I called it a day early just to get some self-care.”**

**His eyes flits to the right of the shot.**

**“Is that what they call it? Self-care?”**

**He breathes in and out, the words more firm.**

**“It is self-care. Yeah.”**

**His chuckle is light, airy.**

**“I wanted to get a few of my thoughts out before bed. I talked to my therapist, and having a way to just straighten out my thoughts — hear what I know, record what I know — is a lot better than letting it fester and...getting a relapse.”**

**His eyes flashes to the right once again. He grimaces.**

**“I had a breakdown a few days ago.”**

**Silence.**

**“It wasn’t the messiest breakdown of all time. We both know which breakdown tops them all.”**

**He scoffs, pulling a sad smile.**

**“Anyway, it was bad. I kinda have to admit that I was pushing myself. And my schedule’s not doing me any favors, honestly.”**

**Steven looks tucked in and small compared to the immense space of the desk.**

**“It’s the self-worth...and the fear of failure again. Rammed itself back into my life — thought I had it checked out but guess not.”**

**His eyes become half-lidded.**

**“And life was getting better too. I felt in control for a few weeks and now…”**

**He points a finger gun to the left of the screen.**

**“Pew. A new problem.”**

**Then to the right of the screen.**

**“Pew. Another problem.”**

**Steven rubs at his head, fingers grazing the undercut. His expression eases.**

**"I don't know how far I'm going to go at this point. My schedule has been getting hectic even when I went easy on the sessions for once. Do I talk to the office to extend and keep the sessions going? What am I truly afraid of here?**

**"I've got no clue. I'm just tired, but also happy? Tonight or the night after that I could consider an idea? An answer too. Something that could ease off a few problems from my shoulders? Maybe that'll bring some deserved happiness.**

**"But I want to be positive about this. I want to feel like I can control this instead of feeling like I have nothing."**

**Steven stares dead center at the camera. His eyes then drifted to a direction off screen.**

**A heavy sigh.**

**"Future me. I know that right now I'm being difficult—no, I'm going through a rough time."**

**Steven takes a deep breath.**

**"And you're probably having the same feelings as me: trapped, dazed...trazed as I call it. But I want to tell you that there's a way in the end. I'm trying, doing my best. I'm still scared and afraid, but I'm not gonna let that stop me from taking the first steps. And I won't let that get to me, because I want to see you in the future, okay?”**

**He smiles softly at the frame, rubbing his eyes.**

**"I really do believe in you. You're going to be great and no matter how long it takes, we'll get there."**

**He starts to rub his eyes more.**

**"Goodnight, Future me. I need some time to think about all this."**

**[ENDED 01/26/20XX 00.06.25]**

**[LOG 000064 ENCAPSULATED]**

* * *

Steven gazed at the camera lens. The red light had died a few seconds ago, but it didn’t stop his stare into the aperture. He leaned back into his seat, letting a small sigh escape into the hotel quiet. The television had been playing _Crying Breakfast Friends_ for an hour now, yet even with the dialogue between the characters and the heartfelt reunions, his mind was occupied elsewhere.

He wanted to avoid the silence. He hated thinking without something to occupy the mind like background noise, and now he had to consider the words he said to himself on camera, compartmentalized into little pieces inside the recorder’s memory. Did he even want to watch it back? Was it even worth it?

Steven stood and plucked the camcorder off the tripod. He watched his recording five times. Each play of his video reminded him of an indie film at some points — he discerned his own body language, the noisiness of the background, the way his eyes were unfocused and all over the place. Steven focused on the details while the colors in the tiny screen played by. Steven gazed up at the clock; it was almost midnight. He needed to sleep.

He chewed on the side of his index finger. Each second showed him being tired, frazzled rather than composed. Where was Steven Universe, the man who made great progress with his therapist back in Mackinac? Where was the enthusiast who took his first steps into the journey at the hotel in Keystone? It felt weird to see the lapse of time, to recall himself as he went through the minutes. Steven had no clue what he was looking for. A message, perhaps. Somewhere in these frames there was a solution to his problems, to give him a quick getaway from everything that happened so that he could relax for once. But he didn’t find an answer; it was somewhere stuck in the in-betweens.

Steven groaned and placed the camcorder down. “I’m just tired. The Camera me looks tired too, it must be the nerves.”

But that didn’t sound right. He could sleep on it — and what came next after that? He wanted to find the origin or a different way to tackle the heaviness in his chest, but the weight wouldn't go away if he give the situation a moment of rest. There had to be something for him to do, to at least give him a peaceful night until the day came.

Steven fished the phone from his pocket and clicked on the management app. He watched the screen light up in calm blue, tapping and sliding through until he found his current setup. The organization wasn't new, but the sight of the dates with each activity started to get to him. The boards told him his goals, his objectives, what he should do with the time given, and here he was just staring at it. Should he move the final day to a few weeks away? What would happen to the rest of his schedule then? His finger hesitated on the panels. There were unseen consequences for changing things, to allow yourself to the unpredictable. He had to think about this. If only Connie were here, she had time management down to an art form. But she wasn’t here, and he had to rely on himself to get this right.

Steven gritted his teeth as he fumbled with the panels again. Something struck him as he pressed at the dates. Steven can feel the pump of his heart through his ears, the tension of his upper body; he was going to panic at this point if he didn’t calm down and look at this from a rational perspective.

He shifted in the chair again. Placing the phone down, he focused on his breath, on the beat in his head as the world slowed down. 

_Loosen your shoulders, Universe. You’re anxious, and that’s okay. You took your medication today, you just need to breathe, just like we practiced. You’ve got this._

Steven inhaled, waited, and exhaled. He focused on the warmth of his hands, the circulation of his blood, feeling the tension in his muscles easing away with the patient tick of the clock. He imagined the warmth of the mugs of hot cocoa, Connie’s hands intertwined with his, and in this moment of drift — where it was him and only him — he opened his eyes.

The bedroom was still there. Every piece of furniture was in its rightful place. The television hummed with the ending credits of CBF, a tinkling of piano accompanied a tranquil voice that synced with his breaths whilst he sat on his chair. He was here, and he was going to be okay. 

_It’s okay to not be prepared, Universe, we can work the schedule out. If anything bad happens, then Shayan will help us, and you aren’t going to be alone in this._

He gave himself another minute to relax and released a much needed exhale. The weight in his lungs was gone. He had a simple idea in mind. He had planned to stay in this state for a month before moving on to the next one. He wanted to make the road trip nice and short — estimated to three years at this point — and he didn't plan to change that any time soon.

He grabbed his phone again. He fiddled with the time panels and adjusted the way the dates were cited. Creating new goals weren’t that bad. It meant a bit of work, a little bit of time, but he wasn’t going to be alone in this; he had friends in this ski resort, he can ask questions if he wanted to, and if anything bad happened then he could talk to Dr. Greene or his dad for help or Connie or anyone else on his list. Taking away one week from the next state’s visit would be enough to give him the skiing hours that he needed. He would have a lot of time to enjoy the mountains, and, in the process, learn at his own pace.

Yeah...yeah, that actually sounded good.

He altered more schedule points. Each new piece of data in the app felt more controllable at his fingertips, and the stress that simmered deep down inside of him had lessened. Sleep sounded reasonable, skiing more enjoyable. But he couldn’t hold on hypotheticals, could he?

That didn’t matter. The only thing left to do was sleep and find out.

Steven brought himself over to his bed. He turned off the television, closed the lights, and drifted off into relaxing slumber.

* * *

Within just a few days the changes came. The obligation of the final week was gone; he had a lot more hours on his clock, more choices to go at his own pace without the fear of anxiety. He talked to the offices to ask any questions, any worries of the upcoming schedule, and was surprised to have himself walk out after signing a few papers. Steven carried his gear out of the expedition station in the early mornings, meeting Shayan at the coffee shop for another round of training sessions, more communication exchanged between them.

Steven started to enjoy the snow more in the presence of Shayan. They had to go back to the easiest of the intermediate routes, but Steven was okay with it. He didn’t feel attacked by the idea of going down the specific sections. He felt happy to just involve himself in the activity of skiing without the fear of imminent failure because of a time limit. The shackles of obligation could no longer restrain him. The new confidence he harbored when he did sharp turns with his skis, when he skated to and fro from different points, was enough. The more mistakes he made the more he made it a habit to see them as challenges rather than a failure.

The mantras he built up brought some recollection to him, back to when he and Shayan were heated up near the fireplace with mugs in their hands. He remembered Shayan telling him that everything he had built himself to wasn’t for some mundane task. He worked so hard to shred the declines with the edge of his skis, following the words of his enthusiastic instructor like he was a disciple, and he allowed the snow to litter the film of his goggles, feeling the wind jettison against his body like he was in flight.

He wasn’t an anxious man in fear of losing control. He was Steven Universe. He dominated the situation in every twist and pivot he pulled on the snow. He remembered to keep his breath steady when he worked. The slopes started to intimidate him less. He found portions of himself that thrived and enlivened in the atmosphere, that accepted the cold as it wrapped around him with each level breath. After every trip, hurdle, and ram into the snow, Steven saw the progress manifest in successful shots, Shayan's whoops when he did a sharp turn of the skis, and the rare successful mogul jumps that pumped pride into his chest. And he felt victorious.

Over the days, Steven felt the thrill of experience and the warmth of many hugs. When Shayan advised for him to rest, the two would drive off the mountain to explore the remainder of the state. Two heads were better than one, after all, especially since Shayan had lived in the place for most of his life. The days reminded Steven of how flexible time became, how with just a simple change in the dates he could have more freedom and, in return, get more assurance that he was human than ever before — how simple and strange it was to make a change.

Snow fell, ice clung to his windows at night, and Steven relished the passage of progress with Shayan when they bounded off after sessions. There were eateries down at the base of the mountain, at the local cities or tourist traps. They picked sauce off their plates with their fingers, skipped pebbles at the surface of the West Delmarvan lakes, and allowed karaoke to buzz their tired heads when they got back to their rooms.

On this solitary night, Steven was perched outside of a pub. Shayan had introduced him to the denizens and the smoky air a few hours ago. Steven watched people ramble with rumors, gossip over the newest show from Kansas and the indie band concerts that planned to play at Wiscounsin’s Indie X Fest. Shayan knew when to give him space in places like this. He had reassured Steven that it was okay to get fresh air or say farewell numerous times, not upset if the boy had somewhere else to be or didn’t find comfort in the talkative establishment. It was that reason that Steven took his leave, a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. The smell of the crisp air chilled him in contemplation, cerulean skies soothed to cobalt blue. The houses were lit up from lampposts and holiday bulbs, the world starved of the horizon’s main light. There was comfort in being able to sit down, to take deep breaths in the night’s beginning gaze, as the sun took its final descent into the horizon. He took a long sip from his chocolate and let out a content sigh.

“Hey.”

Steven looked over his shoulder. Shayan stood behind him, a cup of coffee in the man’s hand. 

“Hey,” Steven said.

“You mind if I sit down?”

Steven looked down at the snow. There weren’t many people outside tonight — it was too cold, and the festivities around the village kept people inside as they celebrated. 

“Nope. Knock yourself out.”

He heard the other adjust next to him. Steven listened to the subtle crunch of the snow, and felt the heat of the other even through the layers. He still felt tense. Even after being friends for a while, it felt awkward to be in long silences with someone else. Steven exhaled and let his eyes follow the wispy trails as they escaped from his lips and dissipated into the quiet.

“The night’s real pretty,” Shayan mused.

“It is.” Steven sipped his chocolate. The sight of the sky was all sleepy-like, the type he would survey when he was still young and impressionable, enticed by the smell of barbeque with sand stuck up into his shorts, a ukulele in his arms. “Reminds me of home, too.”

“Must be.” Shayan shuffled a little and took a gulp from his mug. “All of us see the same sunset.”

Steven knew that wasn’t true. He had seen gems look at the sunset and not think of beauty or hope, but of the technicals. _It is a sunset, and there’s nothing interesting in seeing a ball of hydrogen slowly dying, Steven._ He wondered if Homeworld gems thought the same thing. Were they able to think of beauty through the layers of artificial lighting? Even through all the turmoil and pain and repression, did they get curious about why they felt happy over certain things like land or nature? How many perspectives would he be unable to see, because of him being Steven?

“Not all of us,” he mumbled.

“Hm?” Shayan looked over to him, but quickly straightened his body. “You’re right. Don’t want to generalize. Don’t know if the sunset reminds you of bad stuff."

"That…" Was what Shayan said even true? Steven sighed. "...I guess it does. I still have to think about it."

"You have a lot of time. It's normal to have different views of the sunset. When I see that big cool ball in the sky it reminds me of beetles or big buff guys.”

Steven snorted. “How'd you connect guys to suns?”

“You think of their beautiful smiles and how they brighten up your day.” Shayan puffed out his reddened cheeks. “Bask in their happiness and warmth, their adorable laughter."

Steven's face burned a little “That’s beautiful.”

“You get it, right?”

“You worded it so well,” Steven chuckled. “Makes me wonder if you...have someone in mind, someone back at home.”

Shayan smiled cheekily. “I do. Angry slice of pie in Ravenswood, a few hours away from here. He's a great guy honestly, my personal ray of sunshine."

“Aww, do you have a picture of him?” Steven cooed.

“I’m too short to be in most pictures but sure.”

Shayan leaned over with his phone in his hands, and both of them burst into giggles. Steven noticed Shayan smiling next to the man, presumably his boyfriend, in the picture. They seemed to have paused in the middle of wrestling while in front of the Delmarva welcome sign, with Shayan in a chokehold while his boyfriend beamed painfully at the camera because of Shayan tugging on his ponytail.

They talked with one another on the steps for an hour and a half, bonding over the most random things — favorite chip brands, music recommendations, the fact that Shayan rammed into a pole the first time he met his boyfriend — and Steven felt warm in the company. It was weird to be so open with someone who had been training with him for a few weeks, but the whole thing felt natural. He was allowed to open up rather than hold back about the stuff he had experienced in his life, and Shayan did the same. They fumbled with their fingers, discussed worries about the future, what they wanted to do, what was stopping them from doing it. It didn’t surprise him when the light-hearted jabs turned into anecdotes, Steven’s words turning stern when the dark befell them, the soffit light flickering every now and then with a buzz.

“It still feels weird to be so close to home but not at the same time. I can just drive over to Delmarva any time but I’m still moving and thinking about what I want.” Steven took another sip. It had gotten cold, and had melted into the prior sip’s sour aftertaste. “My therapist told me that it’s okay to feel confused about my home, that I'm allowed to think about this and have boundaries, but there’s still guilt, y’know?"

“Makes sense,” Shayan said. His instructor wrung his gloved fingers, his cup held between his thighs. "That place you lived in has a lot of stuff to unpack. You need to have space to think "

"My family did so much for me though. I know I need space and everything but not being able to see them regularly? It feels like I'm...failing them."

His instructor kept quiet. It was unnerving to be in this awkward tension, where the sky was the observer instead of the other way around.

"Shay—?"

"I'm gonna be honest tonight. Is that alright with you?"

Steven winced at the sudden question. They’d been honest a great deal today. The man didn’t need his permission. But Shayan looked at him with his soft eyes, asking for the initiative.

Steven licked his lips. "Sure."

Shayan dropped his shoulders. There was a new heaviness to him that Steven didn't note before. He looked tired, like a burden had come back to make itself apparent on his body. "I love my family, a lot, but they never understood why I wanted to go out-of-state for college.”

The howl of the wind lessened. The zephyrs sounded like fatigued wolves, fragile flutes.

"They always gave me the money reasons — that I was gonna drain their funds dry, that 'I was a breadwinner like every other person in this family' — but they didn't think much of what I wanted...and the fact I'd been collecting money since I was a baby. I wanted to find myself when all I knew was money tins and them ragging on me for not working and being useful. So I left."

Shayan gazed down at the snow. The shadows contoured his eyelids, made them almost cloaked in the night. "That was four years ago. I've gotten better, even sent them letters and cash, but the idea of seeing them for real, I don't think I can handle it — at least, not yet...or even never." His instructor looked at him with a sad smile. 

"What I'm saying is that you don't need all this worked out in a year, hell, not even a decade. You’ve got a lifetime to figure this all out."

Steven watched him. It was hard to see Shayan be vulnerable, open yet close in this proximity, where Steven could feel the melancholy intimacy. They had known each other for just a month; Shayan had seen him when he was at his most distressed. He could trust the man a little. Just a little bit. 

"Shayan."

"Yes?"

"I also want to be honest tonight." Steven gripped the front of his jacket, felt the presence of his gemstone, its cut surfaces if he pressed hard enough. "Is that alright with you?"

"Always, Steven."

"When I had my breakdown, you told me that I glowed pink."

Shayan nodded. "Mhm."

"Well, about that. I'm not actually human. Well, I am. I _am_ very human, I'm just the child of a human and a powerful intergalactic being."

"Oh."

Steven felt his heart spike. "It's true though, let me show you."

He began to unbutton his jacket.

Shayan yelped and stopped Steven's hands. "What are you doing? It's cold!"

"Oh." Steven felt embarrassment flood his face. He buttoned himself up. "Right, I'll show you something else."

Shayan watched him intently as he ungloved one of his hands. The cold hit his fingers, yet in an instant, a pink bubble enveloped his fist with a gleam of faint light.

Shayan gasped. "Holy shit."

Steven flexed his fingers inside of the confines, watching them move and rub against the sleek interior. His heart was pounding; this was the first time he ever showed someone something like this on his road trip.

"See?" His voice rose a little. "I'm serious. I’m half-gem half-human."

Shayan kept his eyes locked on the bubble, almost starry-eyed at this point. He lifted a hand up to it, let it hover a hair's breadth away with the luminescence tickling his skin.

"Can…can I touch it?"

Steven smiled. "Sure."

The first touch was slow, long-winded, trailing the surface with gentle pressure. Steven watched Shayan’s gaze as he observed the phenomenon in front of him. He adored the way Shayan looked transfixed as he dabbled in his curiosity, and found relief at the sight of his eager face, at the glow in his eyes.

"Not gonna lie, Steven." Shayan whispered. "I was always gonna believe you."

Steven blinked. "Really?"

"I've seen people shove swords into their throats. If you're a son of a space leader and a human then nothing's far off. Maybe cryptids are aliens trying to take a vacation. Anything's possible."

Steven cracked a smile. "I can show you another power if you want. I just need a plant."

“How beautiful shall the plant be?”

“Every plant is beautiful, just get a random one.”

Shayan stood up and made his way to the door. "I'll gladly get one for you."

Steven allowed him to get one of the many florae inside the establishment. He waited on the pub steps for him and giggled as the wind picked up. He wasn't cold now with the giddiness that heated up in his chest. It felt like he was doing something right, that this small step was enough.

* * *

Steven had been at the skiing resort for almost a full month and a half. It felt weird to be able to cross out the last day from his calendar now that he put his stay into retrospect. He had seen people come and go from the resort when it came to lessons and the time of day. He had watched families wave goodbye at instructors and relatives who departed for their respective cars, grinned at children who hollered and had a blast on the green paths, and in the midst of it he felt rooted to the mountains, but in a good way. Between Skip Jack’s narrow decline and the Spruce’s irregular snow mounds, Steven knew that progress had become his muse. He embraced the wind, dodged passersby with elegant curves, and flowed on fresh powder in clean sweeps. Now he only had twenty-four hours left. Might as well make the best of it. Steven stayed on the crosscut between the routes and skated his way through the trail. Teenagers chattered and laughed over snow. The snowmobile made its daily run to the recreation area elsewhere, and the sun had grown to cheery red with the early morning rise, the expanse of mountains dusted in light pink.

Steven felt someone pat him on the back. He quickly found the culprit, Shayan zipping past him. His instructor made a swift stop, a goofy grin on his lips. 

“Sad on the last day?”

Steven smiled. He skated towards him and jabbed his elbow to the man’s chest. “Shut up.”

“It’s okay to be sad,” Shayan cooed. “I’ve seen people cry a few times. It’s not that bad.”

“I’m just surprised that it’s the end,” Steven said. “I didn't even get to the black diamonds yet."

“You’ve been getting a lot better, Steven, you'll get to them in no time."

“I am?” He beamed at his instructor.

“Yes, you are. You’ve started to get more relaxed about this whole thing lately, and I’m very proud of you.”

Steven grinned even more. "And to celebrate, why not another race down Ballhooter?"

“Another race?” Shayan laughed. “You sure? Don’t want you to eat crap.”

“Oh, I definitely won't."

Shayan’s smile faded. "Steven, I'm joking. I'm not going to race you if you're not ready."

"It's okay Shayan. I'll go easy on myself, I promise." 

After some hesitation, Shayan gave a quick nod. The Ballhooter route was still the same like the last time when they readied themselves.. The two went to the top of the Ballhooter run. A few skiers were making their way down the trails and the chairlifts carried people up the climb, but now Steven felt his nerves steeled when they got to their respective spots. There was the distance from each other, the prepared stretch of their arms. Steven took deep breaths while his feet shook in anticipation, his hands quivering as they gripped the poles.

“You ready?” his instructor asked, putting his goggles down. “I’m going to count to three, like last time.”

“I’m ready, Shayan!”

The man laughed once again.

“One.”

Steven kept his legs steady and watched a few attendees pass by.

“Two.”

The breeze tickled his skin and left him shivering as the adrenaline pumped in his ears.

“Three.”

His hands were in a vice grip, ready to shoot himself down the way like a bullet.

“Go!”

The whole experience reminded Steven of falling. He was falling down for seconds on end, the control he harbored guiding him as he welcomed the cold, the chill of the winds, as he maneuvered with ease. For once in his life, there was a charm in being smug, in whooping out when he tucked himself in to whoosh past the trees. Steven inhaled and watched the world zip by in a glorious blur. He carved his skis into the snow and laid waste to a flurry of powder behind him with steady exhales. There was rhythm in his legs, in every portion of his body that drove him further than he ever expected. Pride, he felt pride, from the stringent pounding of his heart to the flurry in his chest, Steven found himself in a fit of giggles when Shayan yelled encouragement as Steven passed him by. He lost himself to the ability of nature; he could do anything. This wasn’t an effect of his gem capabilities, or the quick learning of a fusion. This was him. This was him going with the motions, accepting the rush of the world even after everything that was thrown at him. And he loved it. Every single part of it. The laughter trailed behind him, light and whole-hearted, his cheeks heated amidst the light snowfall. He felt like flying, speeding by the world with rule in his legs and arms. Nothing stopped him, nobody held him down.

He hurtled past the chairlifts and turned the form of his skis until the clean scrunch of snow became music to his ears. He laughed into the crisp air. He had done this numerous times on other courses, but there was enjoyment in watching the cables from the lifts carry upward as he waited for Shayan to come down. There was a weird feeling in his chest now, and God, did it feel so good.

Shayan finally made it, almost raining a wave of powdered snow onto Steven. “Look who’s down the hill!”

“I’m down the hill!”

“Yes you are!”

“Yes I so am!” Steven shrieked in delight, and the two of them broke into hearty laughter.

Steven felt it — the pride, the joy, the thrill of accomplishment — and the ability to savor it with someone was enough to make him weak in the knees.

“Let’s get a drink! You deserve a drink!”

“A drink?” Steven raised an eyebrow. “This early in the morning?”

Shayan snorted and rolled his wrist. “A few of my friends are at Old Spruce for some drinks. I planned to meet them there so join me!”

“Old Spruce?”

“The Old Spruce Bar. A restaurant at the village,” Shayan explained. Steven noticed it a while back, but never took note of it for how crowded it looked. “My treat. You’ve been working your ass off, so margaritas for you!”

“I don’t drink.”

“Then lemonade for you!”

Steven smiled. The feeling of pride didn’t stop when they went back up the mountain, or when they made their walk through the vibrant festivities of the village afterwards. Snowshoe didn’t seem scary anymore. The first few days felt like an alien world, where he only knew of a few roads and buildings, but with days spent hustled through the slopes, muscles aching from the work, he took pleasure in the small things. The stoned pathways were lined with snow. The signs pointing to shops and restaurants became recognized rather than feared. He felt the bustle of families and friends with the clamor of drunken patrons, the joyous toot of the music in the square as they trekked their way to one of the familiar shopfronts.

The Old Spruce Bar had been enlivened with the tired and enthralled. Steven didn’t pay mind to how Shayan pulled him through the crowds as they watched soccer on the overhead, and how Shayan called out in glee at his group of friends, seated near the shelves of displayed liquor. There were clinks of bottles between the men and women that welcomed the two of them into their ranks, brought them menus and stashes of fries with ketchup, and Steven couldn’t help but be pulled into the spin of things. Steven giggled at jokes, at the praise Shayan’s friends gave him over the race and his progress. There was a happiness that bubbled inside of him. 

Steven felt at home with these people, and he wished for more of it. He took a crack at his own jokes, sipped his apple juice with the call of “Shot!” at the table, and yelled over the soccer teams that won or lost on the television screen. He didn’t even understand how soccer worked but he didn’t care. He wanted to enjoy himself.

When the talk began to lower, Steven flinched. He pressed a finger to the outline in his pocket and felt the tremor. He fished it out, pushing away the muffin Shayan sneakily attempted to put on his plate, and widened his eyes at the first thing he saw in the notification.

> **12:30pm** **???** Hello, is this Steven DeMayo Diamond Universe?
> 
> _Read_

Steven frowned at the message. It wasn’t spam mail at all; the post was too specific to be one. He unlocked his phone and started to respond.

> **12:31pm** **You** Can I ask who I’m talking to?
> 
> **12:32pm** **???** My name is Charlie DeMayo. If this is the correct number then I should be speaking to my alleged grandson by the aforementioned name.
> 
> _Read_

His phone dropped onto the table and made the group jump a little from impact. Of course, they were still drunk. They didn’t know that his heart was about to blow out of his chest or that the world seemed to shake as if on a vertex that nobody but him can feel. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect this at all. For a second, the amount of relaxation he had enveloped himself in was now overcome with a new feeling — one that churned out of excitement and fear.

“Hey, Shayan, can I take this for a second?” he asked his companion, who had started up a hysterical fit over the muffins.

The man nodded, still red-faced from the brown brew in his hands. “Yeah, sure! Just don’t come back a stranger, we’re going to start another Two Truths One Lie!”

Steven put on a smile as he brought himself out of the booth. It was hard to be happy when the previous buzz from his phone kept his hand hovered over his trousers. He paced through the aisles, past a few waiters, and stumbled into the dim-buzz of the vestibule, shuddering at the change in temperature because of the front door’s crack in the glass. The cold didn’t matter, his fingers were on the screen before he can even think about it.

> **12:35pm** **You** You’re the father of Greg Universe
> 
> **12:37pm** **???** Yes, I am.
> 
> _Read_

Steven’s hands shook, livid under the painful lighting. It had to be a dream, somehow. It felt real, too real, and his fingers were hesitant to respond to the little blue blip on his phone. There was something surreal in seeing the message, how it felt like a dream that he wrote the letter to meet his grandparents in the first place, but now here was his work made manifest, acknowledging his existence.

> **12:38pm** **You** I’m sorry. I just never expected to meet my grandparents through text.
> 
> **12:40pm** **???** And I didn’t expect to meet my grandson through text, as well. But it’s lovely to know that I got the caller identification right.
> 
> _Read_

He kept his breath level. First impressions are important. If he messed this up then there wouldn’t be another chance, would there?

> **12:42pm** **You** Yeah. I’m really glad to talk to you! I’ve been trying to come in contact with you for a while since December.
> 
> **12:44pm** **???** My apologies. we were preoccupied. My wife and I had spent time traveling the east. as you can see, it took a few weeks for us to trust the letter you’d sent and message Andy of your legitimacy.
> 
> _Read_

Steven chewed his lip. The chill started to bite at his fingers, which were pressed numb against the keys.

> **12:45pm** **You** Well, thank you for believing me, I really do want to keep contact and talk with you guys after all these years. I could come back to WK if you’re there right now!
> 
> **12:47pm** **???** I’m afraid that won’t work. Because of our hesitancy we’ve forgotten that we’ve booked more days outside of the country.
> 
> _Read_

Oh. Steven gritted his teeth at that. He shouldn’t be disappointed, but he was.

The three dots blipped into view and he began to wait.

> **12:50pm** **???** What we’ve devised is that we can meet up at a very specific time. Andy had told us that you are on a road trip throughout the United States, yes?
> 
> **12:51pm** **You** I am.
> 
> **12:53pm** **???** Meet us at Florida Island in July. That’s the time we’ll go to the state for our annual timeshare and we can give you our more personal information when you come visit us.
> 
> _Read_

That, that sounded pretty good on his end. If it meant he could fit a few more months and states under his belt then he would take the case in a heartbeat.

> **12:54pm** **You** I would love that. My schedule should have enough for me to visit you guys!
> 
> **12:56pm** **???** Alright, then it’s settled. we shall meet each other on July 15-28. The door will be open for you, however, don’t be late.
> 
> **12:58pm** **You** I won’t.
> 
> _Delivered_

He definitely wouldn’t.

Yet Steven kept typing. He read the message again and backread their conversation for good measure. His chest was still heavy with each new word he revised and fixed. He wanted to look professional, formal, to be seen as a good influence to them.

> **12:59pm** **You** Once again, thank you so much for taking your time to respond to this. It means a lot to me. I am very curious about my family and it’s a dream come true to be able to talk to you two in person.
> 
> **01:00pm** **???** It means a lot to us too, Steven. Thank you.
> 
> _Read_

With a shaky sigh and a scrunch of his forehead, Steven pocketed his phone and exited the vestibule to meet back up again with Shayan and the table. From that point forward, he never stopped thinking about the text messages. Or the worry that he’d tried to hide ever since West Keystone.

He needed to talk to Dad.

⊠Try to contact family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for the skiing boy (made by [Rannvadraws](https://rannvadraws.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr) can be found [here!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/672205135824551937/716048897193017446/happy_borkday.png)


	14. Delmarva

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while but here we go!
> 
> EDIT: Changed and finalized the lyrics. Also cleaned up the text message scene.
> 
> EDIT 2: Changed another mishap in the text message scene.

Steven had to be honest with himself. He was terrified of seeing his father again.

When he first interacted with the DeMayo household, he never bothered to tell anyone — other than Connie and his therapist — about what he planned to do if the DeMayos decided to talk to him. If he was being honest, he didn’t even expect them to call at all. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months after he wrote the letter to their mailbox, and now he was hit with the reality that they wanted to see him, that they wanted to believe he was their grandson rather than a sick prank call. Uncle Andy didn’t even warn him about this. Here he was, watching the Delmarva sign welcome him back to his home state like an old friend, to show him the familiar landscapes that mingled with the descending sun as if nothing ever happened, while he made his way to Charm City.

It was 5 p.m. when he checked the clock. The Sadie and Shep concert wasn’t going to start until nine. Steven needed to talk to his dad before it was too late. As long as Steven told him about everything that happened and why it had to come to this, then they really shouldn’t have anything to worry about. What was he kidding though, a lot of stuff can happen in just a day. Steven had phoned in with his family once a week but information like this was never exchanged much. Was it selfish to withhold this information in the first place? It must’ve been, but it was his right to see his own family, right? 

His eyes focused on the road. The specks of red lights had worn his vision down but it didn't stop him from listening to the voice on his GPS amidst the low hum of 80s music. The nearest gas station was just a few miles away, enough for him to stock up on snacks for the next state after everything's said and done, and get a few blankets along the way.

"Take exit two-hundred-ten, on your right.”

Steven turned the wheel. The sky had turned into a low orange, the car exiting the highway as the world began its countdown into slumber.

At the sight of the lit-up beaver sign, Steven parked the car in the gas station lot and allowed himself to rest for a second. His legs ached as he pushed the door open. The air smelled like wet dog. The wind had crept into his beanie, caressing his ears and the redness of his nose. Winter still made its presence clear with the crunch of ice under his shoes and the sleekness of the lot as he walked over to the shop. A few minutes later, he noticed that not even the warmth of a foil-wrapped hot dog were able to heat his fingers. He shouldered a tote bag on his arm, filled to the brim with food, and opened the door to the car.

Steven plopped the items aside and rested in the driver’s seat. The chill never left his fingers as he reclined. The lighting outlined his features, mapped him in weak yellow, the radio singing him gibberish lyrics. Steven groaned when the chair stopped. Even if he wanted to relax, his mind always pulled back the same tension to his temples, and he knew full well his anxiety wouldn’t be able to go down till he can find the time to talk to his dad. It would only be a few days, he could handle it.

He fished out his phone. Turning it on, he flinched at the bright light and began to scroll down his notifications. Steven had kept in touch with all the active contacts in his life. He knew he didn't have to respond all the time, but it was better for him to at least keep in touch; it didn't matter if it was a few words or an entire paragraph, he just needed one message to ease the anxiety and guilt.

Steven hesitated for a second. Connie had given him a notification as he responded to Joshua, the first few words from her grabbing his eye. He quickly finished his message and clicked his jam bud's PMs.

> **06:21pm** **Berry <3** you okay over there? finished studying for today so i have some time to talk
> 
> _Read_

Steven frowned. He had told Connie about what he had planned to do, of course. It felt weird not to. Steven trusted her to keep the information under wraps until the confrontation happened, but thinking about the idea made him squirm.

> **06:22pm** **You** Passed the border a few hours ago. Feels weird to be back but here I am.
> 
> **06:23 pm** **Berry <3** just make sure to not overexert yourself, you don't have to do this if you don't want to
> 
> _Read_

He wanted to see his grandparents. Before the decision to go, Steven wondered numerous times if it was right to confront his father about it. He didn’t want to be vulnerable again over this, especially with what happened with the van years prior, but he wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't assert his independence. It didn’t matter if his father didn’t want this. It was his right to go, and it always would be.

> **06:24pm** **You** I’ll be fine, Connie. I promise.
> 
> **06:25pm** **Berry <3** are you sure you don’t need me over there? i can come over anytime
> 
> **06:26pm** **You** Aww, thanks Connie! But I’ll tell you if I do need help. Right now, I need to talk to my dad face-to-face. It’s pretty personal, but I can take care of myself.
> 
> _Delivered_

Steven watched the three dots linger on the screen. He wondered if Connie was doing alright on her end. It had been a few months since she got settled in for the new college year and the amount of time she spent with him became more restricted nowadays. Steven understood it was university stuff he'd never be able to comprehend but they might as well hang out, at least to give his best friend a break.

> **06:27pm** **You** Also, are you okay? You’ve been studying a lot lately. You want to talk about it?
> 
> _Delivered_

The response popped up before he could even look away.

> **06:28pm** **Berry <3** i’m fine, i’ve been getting better with regulating how i spend my time with the assignments. just need some acclimation to the dorms
> 
> _Read_

Steven relaxed. She was okay.

> **06:30pm** **You** Man, I need to check out your dorms one day. What’s it like to be in the middle of movie wonderland, Mrs. Maheswaran?
> 
> **06:31pm** **Berry <3** like paradise...no really it’s just like every other city except a lot more flashy, smelly in some cases. but the restaurants are good, expensive, but good.
> 
> **06:31pm** **You** Come on, Connieee. Tell me everything! The beautiful lights, the golden stars, the cool musicians on the streets.
> 
> **06:32pm** **Berry <3** well, there are some cool musicians at one of the museum centers. i can show you when you finally hit Kansas.
> 
> _Read_

Steven smiled to himself. He wouldn't mind a tour, or just a date at a nice hill or something.

> **06:33pm** **You** Will take a while, but hell yeah! I always wanted to watch a movie in the huge theaters.
> 
> **06:34pm** **Berry <3** lol i'm broke but maybe we can watch a movie at a cheaper theater.
> 
> **06:35pm** **You** Alright!
> 
> _Delivered_

Steven gazed over at the clock. 6:36.

> **06:36pm** **You** I have to head out, Charm City is still far and I don't want to miss the show.
> 
> **06:37pm** **Berry <3** alright ttyl biscuit ily
> 
> _Read_

▢Talk to Dad. 

* * *

Steven found it a miracle that he started to bond with Shep and Sadie even after they left for their tour. They had done calls before, but he never involved himself to message or stay in touch after the graduation incident. He knew it was because of the spite, the jealousy he felt when they took further steps than him to better themselves, and it took multiple therapy sessions to finally pick up the phone more and ask them if they were okay. After that, being connected started to become easier. He listened to Sadie explain things over the phone — how the band name of Work in Progress started over a simple joke and how they spun it into their aesthetic, what routines they dabbled within their spare time, and what genres they tinkered with as they attempted to steady their sales after months of hard work. And even with all that, to see the band finally get more recognition was satisfying to watch. He laughed over band shenanigans, bonded over the idea that anything was possible over the phone, and now here he was, watching stretches of Delmarva turf and woodland morph into urbanized plains. Winter had shown its influence, the chill making his windshield wiper work constantly to wipe the fog, the tarmac decorated with streaks of white.

Charm City grew on the horizon, and Steven couldn't help but feel awe over the sight of the city lights that littered the sky like artificial stars. He had gone to Charm City a few times. When he was seventeen, still recovering and talking to his therapist three times a week, his dad decided to drive him over for a night out, eating burritos with sauerkraut while they gazed at the harbors. They listened to faint Spanish music until their stomachs bulged, heads heavy from the growing fatigue as they waited for midnight. The image stuck in his mind, a fuzzy memory that warned him as he drove. Yet even with the drive through the streets, the curiosity towards the neon signs, and the intricate fountainheads centered in public squares, Steven didn't find a distinction in going through the city now as an active adult. No new projects, no new streets to discover, the same monuments and sectors to explore through. But everything felt older, everything felt taller in comparison to when he was still a younger teen, and Steven had no clue if it was the choice of being here that made the difference.

The concert was planned to be at Peterson Park. Considering it was only a few weeks into February, he found it interesting that Charm City had an available venue for such a chilly event. Well, people did love the cold, and people did love music, and if there was anything to go by about Delmarva, winter usually wasn't nasty at this time of the month.

Steven parked his car at the end of the road. The noise from outside was muffled, and all he focused on was the small headache that pulsed on his temple. He just needed a few minutes to let it die down. With what Sadie told him the concert wouldn’t start until later into the night. Steven fumbled through his pockets and grabbed the VIP card inside of his wallet. He left the Dondai without a second thought.

With the start of the night and the glow of the lampposts, Steven followed the path through the trees, surprised to find plenty of people lounging in the snow, laughing with each other even with the current weather. The wind settled down as he passed through the white-specked hillocks, keeping on the main path with the phone out to guide him. There was tranquility in being lost. Going through here left him to wander, to watch the sky twinkle even through the light pollution, for he knew there were stars that waited to be spotted, to be acknowledged in the quiet of nature. It was just like hiking; there was a tranquility in being by himself, to relax and enjoy the radiant moonlight even through the wisps of clouds.

It didn't take long for him to notice the bright set of lights after walking over a hill, spotting an area closed off by yellow tape and guards. People bustled to and fro from the area, moving carts full of cords, tables, and the occasional poster board. At the sight of the platform that took shape in front of a huge pagoda, Steven knew he was in the right place, and started to make his way toward one of the openings.

A man, adorned in a police outfit, looked him over as he grabbed his wallet out. The guard scoffed. “State your business.”

“Hello, I’m a friend of Sadie and Shep. I’m just planning to see them for a little bit.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a VIP pass?”

Steven plucked a sleek black card out. The guard inspected it, eyes attentive as he flipped the plastic over. He then returned it, stepping aside from the opening.

“I’ll guide you to them, just give me a minute to radio someone,” the guard said.

“Thank you.”

After another guard went into the man’s place, Steven was finally ushered inside. Whenever Steven went to a concert, he tended to notice the differences in equipment. The trusses were wrapped in canvas to protect the platform from the elements. There were speakers set up at the front, the lighting instruments flickering on and off in an array of colors from the fixtures — an engineer probably testing each one behind the scenes. He and the guard strode through the empty field, the bustle of the workers a symphony of its own. Steven felt anxious being in front of the stage. It was the type that soared and flipped in his heart like he was the man on the stage, the man of the hour, and he couldn’t help but giggle to himself from just being in the presence of the huge stage. The sound of synth hit him. It was nearby, almost close enough for him to hear fully, the same tune Shep had done numerous times before in their songs.

“They’re on stage, just be careful and don’t touch anything.” The man motioned him towards the far left of the stage.

With each step he took, the music became more notable, the synth accompanied by singing, a familiar voice that made him pick up the pace. It didn’t long for him to find two figures working on the sidelines. He smiled.

“Sadie! Shep!”

Sadie jumped and quickly snatched her microphone before it fell onto the ground. She looked at him with wide eyes. Shep turned their head, mouth still on the embouchure.

“Steven!”

Steven rushed over and gave them a hug. The warmth was intoxicating, all of them laughing out even with the jumble of awkward limbs.

“It’s so nice to see you!” Sadie laughed and squeezed his waist. “You’ve gotten taller, and holy heck, look at your hair!”

“Aww, thanks.” Steven fumbled with his haircut after they pulled away. He looked them up and down, and gave them a smirk. “And you guys have a lot more flair going on.”

Sadie donned a bright red top and loose denim pants, hair ruffled and a tiny galaxy dyed in her tufts, kept put by what Steven assumed to be a butt-ton of hairspray and bobby pins. Shep’s hair was still tucked in a hat, clad in a pressed polka-dotted shirt, and a bright cropped turtleneck. It was a new look alright, one that reminded him way too much of the 80s.

“Definitely,” Shep smiled at him. They tipped their neon cap back. “You know the new album we have, Steven?”

He nodded. “Yeah, _All Night Discovery_?”

“It’s all about the 80s,” Shep explained. “Activism happened twenty-four-seven. Understanding yourself came at the weirdest of times. So that’s the aesthetic we’re going for.”

Steven extended his fingers in a shaka sign. “Pretty gnarly.”

Shep did the same. “Gnarly indeed.”

Sadie looked over to the guard. “You can go, Mac. He’s a friend, we can just show him around.”

The man nodded after a moment of hesitation and walked off elsewhere.

“It’s so good to see you, Steven.” Sadie gave him a once-over. She leaned back, a smug smile on her face. “A beard, new clothes, _and_ no sandals? Am I actually talking to Steven Universe here?”

“Can’t believe it either.” Steven chuckled. 

His attire looked different than what he would’ve expected a few years ago. He still had his sandals, of course, but nowadays he wore Converse, pastel sneakers, and anything that suited his fancy depending on the day. Star shirts were now part of a closet full of random t-shirts, coats, and jackets that he bought when he had time at the end of the day. It felt very human to be in them. There was relief in wearing them, to be able to don the stuff he chose with his own two hands rather than hand-me-downs or the same get-up for years on end. 

“This is Steven Universe, road trip extraordinaire, and…” He gave her finger guns. “...your guys’ number one fan.”

Sadie snorted and jabbed an elbow into his side. “And still the biggest sweetheart apparently. We have so much to talk about.”

“Is Dad here?” he asked.

“He is,” Shep said. “He’s been pretty busy though so it’s best not to talk to him right now.”

“Yeah.” Steven frowned a little. “I was thinking of talking to him in a bit, but I can wait if I have to.”

“Well, I think he should be okay. You texted him about meeting us, right?” Sadie asked.

“Yeah?”

“Then I don’t think there’s any harm in checking him out. We have a few hours before the gig, just don’t hold him up for long.”

Steven still wanted to think about it.

“Oh yeah,” Sadie said.

Steven looked at her.

“Aren’t you gonna be a birthday boy in a few months?” she asked.

“Oh!” He almost forgot about his birthday. Steven rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. I’m gonna turn nineteen in a few months...Well, six months. Thanks for reminding me.”

“No problem,” she chuckled. Steven noticed that Shep wasn’t with her, their EWI propped into the casing on the ground. Where did they go? “Shep and I wanted to get you something special.”

“Oh?”

“You’re always on the road so meeting up like this was pretty good timing.” Steven gazed over Sadie’s shoulder. Shep had returned with a box in their hands — wide as a wooden plank, thick and heavy when they propped it into his arms. “We put a lot of thought into this.”

“Woah.” He carefully shook the box. It sounded off a muffled ‘tink tink’. He pressed his cheek into its side with a squint. “Now I’m curious.” 

He shook the box again, then beamed at them. 

“This sounds so cool. It’s gotta be a trinket from your journey. Maybe some cool thing some person threw at you and you’re giving it to me as a souvenir!”

Sadie chuckled. “Nahhh, that’s too specific, and impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible.”

“True that, but I don’t think a random guy would throw us something without being rushed by the guards.”

“So what’s inside then?” he asked.

“That’s for us to know and for you to find out,” Shep said with a giggle. “We’re not stopping you from opening the box, after all.”

Steven shredded through the wrapping paper. He felt the covering give way as the shape under it became more defined. In his hands was a black leather case. He felt a lump in his throat. Steven’s fingers brushed against the coarse texture, and trailed its way to the golden curly font, the words ‘Gibson Acoustic’ now settled into his brain. A shaky inhale.

“Holy crud.”

His fingers fumbled with the clasps. Each click satisfied his ears, and the swing of the cover left him starry-eyed, mouth agape. It was a guitar. The top was of solid Sitka spruce, body sleek with the color of rich caramel, the belly of it dipped in the warmth of copper. Steven hesitantly placed his fingers onto the strings, and gave them a series of plucks. What was produced was bird song, a staccato that made him cry in glee.

“A Gibson Hummingbird!” Steven carefully placed the bulk of its weight onto his right leg. The pressure settled, and Steven felt his gut flip when he started to tune the pegs, testing the tiny songs that rang out from the pluck of his fingers. He had a special place in his heart for instruments like these. 

“How did you get this?”

“Got it at a guitar shop,” Shep explained. “Took a while to get it but hope it’s quality like they said it was.”

Steven continued strumming. With each musical trickle, he tuned the pegs more in-between, and concentrated on the difference in the lilt and gutsy bellow of the Gibson’s voice. He allowed his hands to wander on the sleek texture of its pickguard. They ghosted over the floral patterns that wrung itself under the strings, the hummingbird etched into its surface smooth to the fingertips, nothing more than a sleek caress. He brushed against the bridge pins, and adored how they glinted gold in the limited stage light 

“I can’t believe it,” he mumbled. He thrummed the strings, the song from it drifting in a quick interim. His voice grew giddy. “It sounds so beautiful! I can’t thank you enough for this, you guys!”

“I don’t know.” Sadie’s voice became sing-songy. “I think I have something in mind.”

“Oh. You do?” he asked.

Sadie gripped the microphone in her hands. Steven smiled, the newly-formed song grounded itself to something that he found familiar, light and vibrant with each vibrato. He looked up when synth accompanied him. Shep had opened their case, their instrument against their lips. They were making music — they had no clue what type of song it was going to be but the love to perform was there.

_“We’ve made it this far.”_

Sadie kept the microphone to her chest. It was just them, playing music like way back when, where Steven had smiled at her as he crafted melodies from ukulele strings at the backroom of the Big Donut, always reassuring Sadie “that things will be okay”.

_“We’ll do it again.”_

There was confidence. He had seen it with the way she ushered the death of old habits, the revival of newfound hope, and yet he never took a closer look at who she was now that he was given a moment to see. With past tribulations, he thought she was miserable when she wore her hair up and talked of her new partner while Lars was in the room. But he could hear the ease now. The worry of fucking up was gone.

_“It took years sweat and tears but…”_

Sadie knew that when she took this path that it was going to be her own.

_"The pain has no end."_

And there was nothing stopping her from hitting the tune, in that scratch and dip that made her feel more human than anyone Steven had ever encountered. It was the love of the craft, the story told in the melody. There was no doubt about it.

Sadie beckoned him over. Steven shuffled toward her, keeping his fingers to the rhythm.

 _“Look around you, are you satisfied yet?”_ she asked

Steven blinked at that. He watched her giggle, soak in the music as the rest of the lyrics rocketed from her chest.

 _“Everybody’s moving on, and_ _here we are!”_

Sadie nodded at him. He straightened his back, upped the tempo, and started to sing.

_“Life's a misshapen road of wonder that's too much to hold. We took the time to think. We won't succumb to our scars."_

He shimmied his shoulders to the beat.

_“We're on our way now."_

Steven focused and allowed his fingers to dance on the fretboard.

_“We have so much left to do."_

Steven looked over to Shep and gave the same nod Sadie gave him. It was like a silent line of telephone, to watch the confused expression on the other change to understanding in an instant.

_“It ain’t the destination, but the journey you’ll go through!_

_“So here we are, new pebbles on a path so clear.”_

Shep snapped their fingers to the beat.

_“For we are pioneers!”_

_“Pioneers who’ve come so far!”_ All of them rang out, ending the song with a satisfying drop.

“This sounds like a success,” Shep hummed, giggling before producing another tune from the mouthpiece. “We should do improv sections in our songs, Sadie, could add to the experience for the crowd.”

Sadie nodded vigorously. “Yeah! Just random sections where we can just improv our way through! They wouldn’t know what hit ‘em!” 

Her grin faded into a frown. 

“But that would mean there are more moments where I could mess up.”

“You _are_ pretty good at improv.” Shep gave her a soft smile. “You’re going to blow them away.”

“I know.” Sadie leaned into them and looked over at Steven. “Also, you staying for a bit? We only have two hours before the show starts.”

“Mmm, I don’t know. I need to get going.” Steven rubbed his chin. “I want to see my dad before anything else.”

Sadie nodded. “We’ll have a reserved area warm for you when ya’ get back.”

He smiled at that. There was something nice about being reassured, even if it was for the small things. Steven brushed his fingers against the Gibson guitar and placed it back into its casing.

“Alright, I’m gonna find him. Is it alright if you guys can hold onto this until I get back? It won't be long."

"I'll keep it safe for you," Shep said.

"Thanks." He started to run. "Catch you guys, later!"

"Bye Steven!"

* * *

The backstage was bigger than he expected. There were a few road cases that were still being set up, carts with heavy equipment were pushed past him as the orderly chaos of the employees spun around him in movement. There was no stopping, no quitting, just the focus on the technicals, the set-up to make a concert that’d knock the socks off every person in the audience. Being on a stage like this, albeit behind the scenes, made him fuzzy, almost giddy to play. It had been a while since he had done something like this. Sure, there was the moment with Joshua at Erstam but he was never given a moment to see a professional stage like this.

“Hey, Steven!”

Steven turned his head. “Dad?”

It had been a few months of travel. Steven never expected to witness his dad in a short ponytail before, or a striped suit for that matter. He had listened to his father struggle to get into the music industry when he was younger, at the same age that he was. But now here he was, gently ordering people to work on tech, on the microphones, on every piece of the stage to make the entire night perfect for the citizens of Charm City.

Steven was pulled into his dad’s embrace, each Universe laughing their hearts out like they haven’t seen each other in years.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. What was it, like, five months?”

Steven smiled. “A lot more than that. Halfway to a year.”

“Oh geez,” Greg pulled him into another loving hug. “Going on the same road trip as your old man. I’m gonna cry, y’know?”

So much pride seeped out from his dad’s words. Steven’s gut wrenched. “Aww, it’s okay. We still have calls and video chats.”

“I know, but it ain’t the same if I haven’t seen you for, I don’t know, a quadrillion years.” Greg shrugged, then gasped. “Is that the beard the gems were talking about?”

He nodded. His facial hair had gotten a bit longer, covering a sliver of his chin. “Steven Edition, all bristles, yet very soft.”

“Niiicee.”

Both of them burst into giggles again. Steven, however, was wound up, tightened like a Gordian knot. He knew that this moment of kinship could end any second, and the true discussion would have to begin because of it. For the moment, Steven enjoyed the sound of their laughter, the lack of worry.

“Pretty neat timing, huh?” Greg smirked at him. “Thought you’d be in West Carolina when I called ya’ but nope, you were still close by!”

“Yeah. I didn’t expect it to fit so well with the schedule — I thought I was gonna have to postpone or cut stuff short but it worked out perfectly.”

“That’s the charm of road trips, Steven,” Greg said. “You’d think you have everything planned, and then you’re in an alleyway eating gyros with one of the wisest men you’ve ever met. Things just work out somehow.”

Dad did have a point. Steven had planned this road trip in advance. He had told himself where to go, how many weeks each per state, but he found himself sidetracked amongst the goals he fulfilled every day. In Empire he listened to bands in the subways, took pictures of spray paint murals out in the more desolate portions. In Maineland, he sported random coats from stores with Connie, doing horrible actor impersonations until the employee told them to buy something. Stuff like that wasn’t in the roster, and they became memorable, solidified into his journal for the future.

“I did meet a lot of wise men, some weirder than others,” Steven finally admitted.

“Oh? Any old farts like me?”

“Nah,” he snorted. “You’re not an old fart, Dad!”

“You say that but it feels like I just aged twenty years from doing this tour,” his dad chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. “We have ten more venues to go to. Shep and Sadie still are pretty pumped though after, I don’t know, twenty-five seshes!”

“Can use a long nap after that.”

Greg laughed. “Definitely. Let me show you around, I don’t think you’ve seen this type of set before.”

“Yes!” He stopped himself. “I mean, yes please.”

Steven had a fondness for listening to his father whenever stories came up. When it came to being a master at roadtrips, and someone who had been touring the country because of his manager title, there was always something new to discuss when his dad had time to talk. The backlogs were the ones that eased him into listening, to hearing his dad talk about the venues and their trips around the United States. There were recommendations of eateries, donations to the less wealthy, a couple creating paintings with stencils and airbrush. There was always something for Steven to listen to.

“So Shtuball.” 

His dad wrapped an arm around his shoulder as they made their way through a working crowd.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Shit. He almost forgot.

"Is there something on your mind?" He frowned. "You can talk to me if it's about therapy, I'm all ears."

Steven bit the inside of his cheek. "It's not that."

“Then what is it?” Greg scrunched his forehead, not out of frustration but from befuddlement. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but I'm open if you are.”

It was hard to watch his dad act so open to him. He knew that his father will always be there to support him, but what if this was one of the moments where he wouldn’t? What happens then?

“Can we talk about this somewhere private?”

Greg furrowed his eyebrows. "Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not comfortable saying it with people around. It’s pretty private.”

Greg smiled softly. “Alright. We have a few backrooms if you want?”

Steven nodded. They made their way through the crowds. All of them were hectic, being told a few minutes ago that there was only an hour left before the main event. Steven needed to hurry.

Greg motioned him away from the bustle of the crew, and over to a quiet corner of the backlots, where a few heavy duty trolleys were parked, already emptied of their equipment.

“Alright, so what’s up? You look a bit sweaty. Is it bad?”

“Not that bad.” Or so Steven hoped. “It’s just that, you remember when we went to West Keystone?"

Greg eased up and laughed. “Oh yeah. A lot of messing around at gift shops. Eating burgers. Sunglasses. I never forgot that. Why?”

Steven stopped himself from inhaling sharply. “A few months back, when I was in West Keystone, I noticed that Showne was on the map.”

His dad’s smile faded. “Wait, what?”

“So, I decided to go over there to maybe check out if the DeMayos were open for a visit.”

His dad’s face grew pale. "Steven…"

“I wrote them a message to text me back if they want to talk and…” Steven exhaled and listened to the pump of his blood through his ear. “...now I’m going to meet them at Florida Island in a few months.”

Steven watched his father look at him. It was void of any reaction, somewhere lost in his confused stare. Greg’s eyes suddenly took more of a hardened look, almost glassy.

“You...contacted my parents.”

His dad watched him as if he just witnessed a murder right in front of him.

“Dad, I—”

“You actually contacted my parents.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it,” he said. _Keep your breath level, Universe. Keep it all level._ “I didn’t want you to be in the dark after all this time.”

“Steven, you can’t just contact my parents.” The words seeped with anxiety, and Steven watched his father trip on his own words. “They don’t even message me anymore. It’s been decades since they did. They’re going to ask me so many questions. I can’t do that, you can’t do that!”

Greg erratically looked around. The backstage was getting flooded with more workers. Steven watched his dad as if he was falling apart; it made his heart clench tight, boiling under the pressure.

“I know. And I’m sorry, I should’ve talked to you before doing any of this, but they’re not coming to talk to you.”

“Let’s talk about this somewhere else.”

He grimaced. “Okay.”

The stage wasn’t the place to have this situation, and Steven agreed with that. But the tension was there. He can feel it from the lines on Greg’s forehead, the sweat on his face, and the lack of words between them as they left the backstage. The darkness allowed them to fade into the depths of Charm City’s green fields until the sight of the parking lot came into view. The van was parked unceremoniously with the rest.

Greg grabbed his keys and went to the back of the vehicle, opening it wide. Steven entered and sat inside, watching his father close the doors behind them. There was the smell of pizzas, of previous air fresheners, and the overwhelming scent of guitar wax. Every portion of the van was familiar, from the dusty ceiling to the boxes that slid back and forth at turns from the street. It was weird to be part of it again, and to have himself be fitted with the sinking feeling in his gut as his dad rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked older than ever before.

“You can’t go to my parents.”

Steven tensed up. “Why not?”

“You can’t.” Greg looked away from him. Something held firm in his eyes, and Steven didn’t know what to feel about it. “You just can’t. These are the DeMayos we’re talking about, they’re not the type of people you want to be with, trust me.”

“But at least just hear me out.”

“Steven, my parents aren’t the ones you want to hang around with.” Greg’s voice grew terse. Steven never heard it sound so tense before, cornered like an animal. “They’re horrible people, really horrible people. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into with them.”

“But I’m not a kid anymore, Dad.” Steven flinched. “I can figure out what I want to do, I’m allowed to make decisions.”

“And your decision’s not gonna help you out, Steven. I know you’re an adult now but what if something happens to you? You need to get away from them, put a hundred miles between them and you. It’s not worth seeing them.”

“You don’t know how long it’s been. What if things have changed?”

Greg winced. 

“Is it something that I’m missing? Is something on your mind?” his father asked. “I promise to work harder if it’s me.”

“What?”

“I’m always open to your feelings. I don’t want to close you off again if that’s where all this is coming from.”

“No, that’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Then what am I missing, Steven?” he asked. Desperation, there was desperation. “What can you possibly want from my parents?”

_Stop. Stop. Steven, we need to stop this._

They weren’t supposed to be fighting or negotiating. All this is doing is making both of them riled up. Nothing was going to happen if they allowed it to go on.

“Wait, time out. Time out.” 

The questions from his dad died down. Steven kept eye contact with his father as his breaths steadied with each inhale and exhale.

“I didn’t mean for this to be so...intense.” It wasn’t. It wasn’t supposed to at all. “I just wanted to talk to you about this. I didn’t want to fight or invalidate your feelings.”

The confines of the van almost made him suffocate, but in that moment, his mind was focused on what was important. His dad looked rigid in the limited lighting, but Steven knew that the calm, the uncomfortable hush, was needed for this to work. There were two sides being talked about. Both of them were miscommunicating. They needed to think, to let everything settle rather than fight against it. If not, then Steven had no clue what he would do.

Minutes went by. Both of them could only think in the empty space.

“Okay.” His dad’s voice was almost a whisper. The strained tone in his voice was slowly leaving. “Alright. I’m all ears now. I’m sorry for raising my voice.”

“I’m sorry too.” Steven bit his lip. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants, almost trembling at this point. He was relieved, however. They were finally going to talk. “I didn’t have the right to act like I knew better.”

His dad sighed. “And I can’t really hold you off from seeing them, huh?”

Steven gave a pained laugh. “I want to at least give reasons to why instead of having you in the dark. That’s why I’m here. Because I _do_ have reasons.”

Greg gave a ghost of a smile. “Lay it on me, Steven.”

Steven clasped his fingers together, held them tight as he allowed his mind to wander, to piece everything he had planned before this moment. His heart rammed against his chest, left him in a weird mess of cold and sweaty. But he inhaled, nice and gentle, and took the plunge.

“I’ve never had a moment to actually talk to the human side of my family. I have you and Uncle Andy, but other than that...I got nothing. It took years for me to even understand and comprehend how important my gem side of the family was, and I don’t like the idea I won’t be able to piece everything together for the DeMayos, that it’ll take years before I can enjoy their company too.” 

His body shook, yet even with that he felt calm. Nothing was going to hurt him.

“I know how horrible they were to you — your parents. I’m not going to deny that.” A controlled exhale. “But I’m a Universe. I’m allowed to talk to people or keep them out of my life if they aren’t worth it. I’m not going to get hurt, and you don’t have to talk to them, at all. It’s just me.

“What I want to say is just...you don’t have to do this at all. What they did to you was horrible, you have the right to not see them or even talk to them. I never should’ve disregarded your feelings about them in the first place, even if I was hurt.”

The silence prevailed. It was hard to keep his contact with his father, to watch him observe his actions, his fidgeting while the world outside the van continued in a crawl. The concert was going to happen anytime, and yet everything felt too slow, a breath away from a fuck up.

“Oh, Shtuball.”

Steven yelped when he was pulled into a tight hug. It wasn’t unwelcome, not by a long shot, but it pressed at his lungs and left him breathless, shaky. 

“I shouldn’t have as well, Steven,” Greg whispered. “I’m supposed to be your dad, not some policeman dictating what you want.” Steven eased into him and reciprocated with a squeeze. “Crud, man, I really don’t want to do that to you.”

“But you have reasons to not want to see them.”

“You’re a man now. Well…” Greg chuckled. “...you always have been, but now I gotta remind myself that you don’t need to be babied. And even if I have no clue what you’re planning to do when you finally meet my parents, I’m not going to stop you. You have the right to see them. I’ll be worried, of course...but if anything happens I’d at least want to get a message of how it went?”

Steven pressed into his father’s shoulder and nodded into the fabric. He allowed the comfort of his old man’s warmth to envelop him like a blanket. It was soft and loving, the same feeling that his dad gave him years before. After dangerous missions, successful concerts, alone time on the beach with their guitars, and most of all, every moment Steven walked out of the therapy door, where his father would stand up from his chair, hold him tightly against his chest, and told him that he was proud. That he was proud of each step, moment, and second that Steven took. That he would promise honesty to him when Steven doubted himself, when the nights left him pink and disgusting and the feelings would choke him like a noose. His dad made a promise to listen. And he kept it, even at this moment where Steven gripped the suit fabric and started to sob.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Steven.”

Steven pressed himself more into his father’s shoulder. He could hear the shift of his feet, the grunt of the weight under them, and the smell of home. It almost felt like he was being rocked by his father, the outside world slipping away as Steven kept focused on the warmth in front of him. His dad was whispering reassurances into the hush. There was a promise in not leaving him alone at this moment, even when time seemed to creep by, and Steven knew that he was grateful, that his father wouldn’t leave him alone at a moment like this. Because why would he? In the end, it was never supposed to be an argument. It was just a discussion between a son and his father. It was everything Steven wanted.

⊠Talk to Dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We're On Our Way" was written by me and my friend, Flashmumriken, who you can find on [Soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/flashmumriken) if you want to check out their songs!


End file.
